


Speak no evil

by Hashilavalamp



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blood and Violence, Gen, Heavy Subjects, Historical Hetalia, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-04-06 14:45:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14059230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hashilavalamp/pseuds/Hashilavalamp
Summary: In Casablanca in 1943, the Allies came together to form a commission comprised only of nation representatives. The goal is simple enough: investigate the causes for how two of their kin could become this corrupted, and further, to determine their guilt and the fate of Prussia. But once Berlin has fallen to their armies and their team launches its investigation, their efforts are immediately mired in unforeseen issues. It becomes more and more apparent that nothing in this matter is simple.





	1. Beware: The world is changing

For inexplicable reasons a few years ago the world had erupted into frantic chaos, and yeah, it still hadn’t sorted itself out since.

It felt like the globe had begun to spin a little around its axis to the tunes of those crazy Europeans and Asians, trying to dictate a pace for everyone else to follow. They’d been pretty successful there, America had to give them that. His life too seemed strangely accelerated these days, as the wound in his shoulder from their planes stung, like somebody had shoved him into the backseat of a car and refused to take their foot off the gas pedal as they sped towards a brick wall.  
He hated it.  
Fucking hated it, had done his best to ignore it all when they’d started their little game two oceans away from him.

 Or well, lots of things change in a year. America discovered that even if he’d never march, this pace suited him better than anyone else, that his long legs were good for something here. Britain and France moaned under the constant stretch and pull across the fronts, couldn’t keep up with the times and stood powerless before yesterday’s headlines. But America? Ah well, he took it all in stride because he’d learned what all these old dogs apparently never had.  
You gotta strike the iron while it’s hot, when the ink is still wet and the newsreel rattles in the cinema’s projector – he never let Hollywood’s scripts become outdated now. Don’t like what’s going on, then just take over the steering wheel and stay two steps ahead of history, you will be the one who makes it.

America was always two steps ahead of history, and – he checked his watch – 10 minutes late to the meeting that he himself had called for.

He sighed, reluctantly pushing himself up from the bed with a little bounce. His suitcase slid a bit closer to the edge of the mattress with his movements, which normally America would have just left that way. But he was stalling like any good man would. So he carefully pushed it back to its previous position, and took the time to brush his hand over the blanket to straighten out the wrinkles he’d left behind. He’d get that bed looking like a damn fascist made it, so perfect it would be, while the clock handles moved at his back.

When the bed was as orderly as one could hope for it to be, America fixed his hair first, moving down from there to his tie, his suit jacket, his pant legs, his shoe laces. Could already imagine the looks he’d get for this sudden tidiness, but America would bear that without his grin faltering once.

America shook out his hands a little helplessly as he looked around the room in search of just one more little delay to latch on to, over the dark wood furniture and the curtains with their odd swan-print. Too bad that everything had already found its rightful place again thanks to his new-found diligence.  
The only thing in the hotel room that begged his attention now was the nice leather case that he’d been ignoring all day, leaned innocently against the dresser in the vain hopes that its dark color would make it blend in enough with the wood that he would overlook it. And inside of it rested that one harmless document with his president’s signature.

Time to go meet his makers, it seemed.

He closed the door behind him just a bit more forcefully than needed. Which with his strength that meant that he left the door rattling in its hinges, but nevermind that. The hotel could just put that down on his bill if any damage was caused. He had to save all his pleasantness and all his smiles and politeness for that snake den after all.

When men of his staff noticed him striding past them through the halls they all turned their heads like chicken on the roost, already opening their mouths with greetings and their own concerns, America just gave a strained expression that he had to hope resembled a smile and apologetically held up his briefcase to signal that he was already pursuing some pressing business matters. Could’ve taken them as an excuse to hang back and postpone the meeting by another hour. Could’ve, but honestly they didn’t feel like fun company right now either, the wrong kind of smothering for somebody like him.

So these men were left behind and America continued unhindered on his course towards the meeting room he’d picked for this, the path ingrained already because of how much he’d gone back and forth around here just to make sure he never missed the good and important bits of these talks and could smile real big into the camera when it was needed.  
He hadn’t brought a camera for today.

And there he went, almost past the right door, that’s what thinking too much got you. He skidded a bit clumsily to a halt on the polished floor and fought to regain his composure while his cowlick freed itself from the confines of hair wax.  A few steps back and America took a calming breath, shoved his shirt deeper into his pants where it threatened to escape and fruitlessly brushed his hair back. A little shimmy, get the feel of his body and clothes back to being right.

He’d endured them for over a week now and tomorrow the whole affair would hopefully be over when the press had had all their nice pictures and news, just had to remind himself of that.  
And so he opened the door.

“Oh my, the hotel staff has already reprimanded you for always smoking up the rooms though, haven’t they? It’s ruining the poor curtains.”

America’s voice was chipper and just saccharine as he pushed his way in through the wall of toxic plumes from France’s cigarette. Between the clouds, the sunlight filtering in through the large windows let him find his way over to his seat and he unceremoniously plopped down, hitting his leg against the low table when he crossed it over the other. America had developed a liking for the aesthetic of this place, the welcoming warm colors and the flowers that bloomed even in January, the much less welcoming safety panes attached to the windows against snipers, but he just wasn’t made to sit like this.

Across from him, France placed his cigarette between his lips again and took a deep drag as though he hadn’t heard. To the untrained eye his body language spoke of a man who had all the time and patience in the world, and yet the grim lines of contempt in his face and the well-concealed bruise were so much more honest, telling of somebody who’s had quite enough of everything going around him. No wonder, America had caught him skulking about outside the rooms he’d been excluded from, littering cigarette stumps where they didn’t belong with few having the heart to tell him to stop when they saw his uniform. Weren’t bitter old men just the worst to deal with?  
America met his gaze evenly, not flinching despite the animosity that reflected back.  

“And you are testing our patience, America” Britain called out from next to his new ally. America’s smile took on something more of a grimace at the sight of his, well, brother. He supposed. And it was only in part because of their personal issues, a great big deal of his discomfort came from the fact that Britain had quite frankly seen prettier days.  Allegedly Russia got hit a whole lot worse with the ugly bat, but Britain’s miserable shape didn’t make him much of a feast for the eyes either. It was near comical when fat Churchill stood right next to he who seemed to disappear in his suit. More so than the hollow cheeks, America couldn’t help put stare at his nose that now pointed a bit to the left ever since it had been smashed.  
But if he was still this condescending then it couldn’t really be all that bad yet.

“One of the generals wanted to have a word with me, it couldn’t wait. You’ll have to excuse my tardiness” America responded, stretching his smile a bit further into a grin that was uncomfortable to wear, but worth it as Britain grumbled to himself and adjusted his position in his seat.  One could see just how much it pained him that he wouldn’t get to scold America about it like one would a little child. Nostalgic as that would’ve been, America was here for the future and not the past.

“What was it about?” France asked, failing to sound casual as he had obviously been intending.  Nice try.  
“Oh-… nothing of great importance to you, barely worth mentioning here” America replied and watched France’s nostrils flare. The hand that was not currently cradling the cigarette shot up to brush a strand of ash blond hair behind an ear, but there was nothing there now. Germany had done quite a number on France’s hair, short and dull as it was these days.

“You also said yesterday that this meeting could not wait, and yet we’re getting close to an hour after the official beginning of this little conference – due to your person, mind you” Britain sneered and tapped his fingers impatiently on his knee, “and you haven’t even had the kindness to enlighten us on your agenda for accosting us in such a manner. Still we came here, but I know that my own goodwill only extends that far, so. Care to tell us already what you prepared?”

 “Straight to business! Good!” As irritation began to burn in his veins, America picked up his briefcase and rested it on his lap for a second so he could reach inside and leaf through the documents until he had the one he’d been looking for. It felt heavy as lead when he pinched it with two fingers and pulled it out with care, and even heavier when he triumphantly held it up to show his less than pleased audience.  
The briefcase swiftly got kicked back under the table again; America eyed his allies over the edge of the sheet of paper, genuinely smiling behind it at the way that France lost the last pretenses of detachment with the way he leaned forward as the bloodhound smelled his chance to be relevant, the way Britain’s eyes seemed to disappear under his furrowed brows and his mouth formed a prim line as though America had just forced him to bite into a slice of lemon. They didn’t even know what America held in his hands, their starved imagination alone gave it power right now – and America were lying if he said he didn’t think it was difficult to stifle a malicious laugh at their expressions, at the power that they so quickly and unquestioningly awarded him with. Times sure as hell were changing now, weren’t they!  
Britain had the decency to wait a moment before he opened his mouth to complain, his hands moving forward as if he were gonna snatch the piece of paper from him if he withheld it any longer, however America quickly cut him off with an indignant click of the tongue.

“Ah-!  Now don’t ruin this suspense like that! Where’s your manners, pal.”

Britain bristled, his lemon mouth drawing even tighter around his teeth – how long until his lips would snap back in a snarl? “Don’t you talk to me like that, I already told you it’s not appreciated.”

 America sighed kindly and tasted victory on his tongue. “Whatever ya say. Don’t make a grab for confidential documents then, simple as that. They aren’t for your eyes until I willingly hand them over to you.”

Britain fell back a little in his chair, pouting and blowing himself up like a sickly puffer fish. France smirked at him and crushed the remainder of his cigarette in the ashtray set out for him.

 “Glad we got that sorted out, you two” France said loftily, his washed-out blue eyes fixing themselves so firmly on the paper that America nearly felt bad to see the man so desperate. Nobody would let him forget Vichy with their closed conference doors.  America was already taking enough pity on him as it was though, on him and Britain both, and you could never lend those Europeans a hand without them ripping off your whole arm anyway.

Deliberately slow, America set the document down in front of him, pressing the tips of his fingers to it and watching the distorted shapes of his own now unfamiliar face in the reflection that the polished surface of the table threw back at him.  
And then, slowly, edging closer and closer, he slid the paper over to the other side of the wooden pond between them as an offering to the vultures.

France reacted quicker than his partner did; Britain let out a noise of protest and gripped on to the arm rests of his chair so tightly that the bones of his hands showed stark through the pale skin, perhaps practicing their eventual grip on France’s neck.  
France on the other hand appeared unnaturally calm all of a sudden as he took in what was written in this document with a crease slowly forming between his eyebrows. When he was done, he passed it over wordlessly to Britain, who eagerly accepted it and spared himself the dirty look in order to get to the heart of the matter already.

America just sat there and laced his fingers together during the wait, twiddling his thumbs a little, looking over their heads out of the windows into the blinding Moroccan sun that peeked through between the leaves of greenery that had climbed the building.     
He hated waiting for these two. Always made him feel like he was stuck in a tiny little chair with them towering over him, never satisfied when they brushed him off and dismissed his achievements just because he hadn’t bent to lick their boots when they kicked him with them.  
And he hated feeling like that. Hated feeling like he was still a colony and not the biggest powerhouse this planet had ever seen, out-producing them out-matching them in every aspect you could think of. Hated how in their eyes he’d forever walk in shoes he’d long outgrown.

Hated how even when they relied on his charity, they thought themselves in control.

How fucking long could it take to read one single page, for Christ’s sake.

“Done yet?”

Britain perked up, his face contorting strangely in a way that let you see the turn and interlocking of cogs in his mind. He cleared his throat and pushed his chin upwards before he dropped the document and let it sail to the middle of the table. America smiled.

“What do you think of it?”

Again it was France who stole the words from Britain, liking himself so very much apparently in this new-found role that he reprised it for the occasion. France’s eyes were narrowed and cold, his teeth seemingly sharper when he spoke. “It’s an interesting proposition, for certain. _An investigational team on the matter of ideological corruption of the nation of Germany!_ Now doesn’t that sound… impressive. I’m surprised that your government would come forward with such a proposal, and that they would keep the control of it so firmly in our hands; I expected your humans to want to meddle a bit more. But isn’t it a bit early to be thinking of these things? Or are you so sure of your advance.”

“Never too early to start!” America said, not letting himself be baited. “When you read it over, you will see that the idea here is to turn this into a proper international institution until we’ve fulfilled its purpose. We would have official resources to fall back onto, but setting up that kind of thing can take its sweet time, you understand. No matter how slow or fast we bring about that surrender, we’d be able to go straight to work on this if we just get this approved quickly enough. And especially in the matter of Prussia…”

“In the matter of Prussia we would have to pass judgment quickly if we really are to serve as advisors on this topic.”

Britain had finally managed to insert himself into the discussion, cross still that he had been passed over but recovering. France just raised his eyebrows at him and America had no doubt in his heart that if the man were still smoking, he would have blown a gust of smoke in Britain’s face with how he looked at him, as if Britain had transformed into a bug right before his eyes.

“I don’t see why we can’t settle that matter without an investigation. I think both of us have seen and heard enough, our governments need no further input in order to make their decision in this regard.”

“Because I have decided it that way” America happily announced, drawing France’s ire expertly to himself. “I have negotiated the terms and goals of this possible institution with my president, and I don’t think either of your bosses would want to raise many complaints with it. Aside from investigating the corruption of Germany –citizen ‘Ludwig Beilschmidt’, we will further determine the role of Prussia – citizen ‘Gilbert Beilschmidt’ on this path to fascism and pass a judgment on him. That way we can learn how to prevent further incidents like this one. Or that’s the idea. At the very least, we would be given the chance to handle the fate of one of our own without humans deciding it by themselves, and you can see how that’d be a victory for us.”

As if America hadn’t just taken his side, Britain shot him a glare as well. “You are going to assume the position of leader of this ‘team’ before it has even been formed? You are deciding for us without having heard any of our thoughts yet. Just because we’ve--” He cut himself off, licking his chapped and split bottom lip nervously. “This is- it’s untenable. As little as I may agree with France in the matter of Prussia, I _cannot_ in good conscience present my leadership with this task you have dictated for us if I have not gotten any say in how it will be conducted.”

“Oh yeah? Who else do you suggest runs this then?” America bit back before he could stop himself. He couldn’t play nice with them for this long, just couldn’t. So he did the same his brother had, he held his head a little higher and narrowed his eyes into slits, only amused in passing by how Britain flinched back immediately.  “France has just demonstrated that he is apparently not capable of controlling himself enough to assume any kind of leading position in this endeavor, and we mustn’t forget that his status is still… uncertain. Yeah it’s a bit unfair maybe, I’m not usually one to hold grudges! But as long as you haven’t even settled on where to you allegiances lie, we can’t have that kinda thing.”

France tensed.

“And you, Britain, have appealed to me too many times now to be questioning my standing in this alliance, don’t you think? And oh, I get it, I get it, you don’t like that some outsider is telling you how to handle your business without you even getting any representation in the debate. Been there myself. But y’know. Considering the course of this war, and all the years you’ve had leading up to it and all the chances you got to take care of the problem by yourselves, you might understand why I’m not putting a ton of trust in you either. I’m not going to enforce anything, this more of a draft than a finalized project. Not even properly worked out or anything. I merely suggest you two sign the paper and have your leaders give it a look if you’re so deeply concerned.”

Britain too tensed, wringing his hands while searching maybe for something to retort to that. Go ahead, bastard, go throw the stone right through your beautiful glass house and pick the shards out of your eyes.  
And then Britain deflated a bit, looking sicker than he did all week. France too kept his mouth shut despite the persistently antagonistic air he exuded, knowing better than to heap even more mockery on himself. After all, he too had bought the lie Germany and Prussia had sold him so expertly about Czechoslovakia.

“So, gentlemen?”

America graciously provided his own fountain pen, watching as the other two put their signatures down next to his own with their backs bent and heads bowed. Jeered in his own head as he loomed tall.

“The document claims you want Russia in on this as well. I don’t think he or Stalin will take more kindly to it than we did” Britain warned sharply when he already stood in the door to leave, holding on to his walking cane like a weapon.

“I’ll tell him they should’ve shown up to our meeting if he has an issue with it. We’ll get the signatures, don’t worry.”

 Once the door finally fell shut, America felt the muscles in his body relax all at once in a manner that bordered on uncomfortable. Mainly because he hadn’t even noticed that he had been so tense throughout this, aside from the little workout he had subjected his facial muscles to when he had to clench his teeth a little here and there. Like this, it felt like his body was collapsing in on itself a bit, treating him harsher any crawl through Asian jungle.

Drained as he was, he still forced himself back onto his feet and just shortly after found himself resolutely dragging one of the hotel chairs across the dry grass of the garden at the back of the hotel, planting it firmly in place at the little slope, just where they would be standing tomorrow when the correspondents would be flown in.  
America heaved himself into the chair, let his hands fall to the side and stretched his legs out as far as he could, tipped his head far back and blinked against the blinding white of the façade of the building. He watched that upside-down world behind him with its garlands of flowers and plants that were draped across the structures and snaked artfully around the pillars, their petals and leaves moving softly in the breeze that had been a deceptive storm back on the ocean.  
The cigarette he had allowed himself to smoke was left hanging unlit from between his lips, his hand lingering just over the pocket with his lighter.

It wasn’t quite weight that he felt in that second. History never was a weight on him. History was just the dust that he left behind, history wasn’t a dark foreboding feeling that coiled in his stomach into a heavy nauseating stone.  

But with the hotel crawling with security measures and personnel, with the sun warming his tan skin, with the searing pain of his shoulder’s injury, the howl of engines close by… something about it seemed monumental.  
Today was another one of those days, on which he’d set the course for the future.

He was always two steps ahead.


	2. Need a hand?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm back with the next chapter! University classes are starting soon so I will probably not be able to get the third chapter out that soon.
> 
> This chapter is a bit long, I apologize for that! May the read still be enjoyable!

The first drag from the cigarette always burned the most. 

Toxic smoke seared its way down America’s throat to fill his lungs with tar, and when he exhaled it coated his tongue and replaced the perpetual taste of dust. Standing among rubble and debris of his enemy did not mean that America appreciated having it in his mouth, and the sweetness of victory still expertly evaded them.

“Are you sure it was around here?”

A few steps further ahead, Russia simply continued to poke around the chunks of concrete and other junk that eager ants of soldiers and women had piled up in front of the battered buildings lining the street, very much as though he hadn’t heard. America watched the tall washed-out figure uselessly meander about for another moment before he got fed up and reluctantly walked over to his ally and asked again, his smooth voice taking on a more strained tone.

Russia finally turned to face him, and America thought that he would have been fine if he hadn’t.

Russia had one of those faces of war that women and children averted their eyes from and men saluted to distract themselves from the sudden wave of nausea that flooded them. America’s stomach no longer churned at the sight, or at the scent of smoking flesh that hung about Russia like a miasmic cloud, if only because his eyes were weary and had seen just a bit too much to still feel the horror. Didn’t mean though that he liked seeing it, the angry flame-scars on Ivan’s skin, the ghostly pale eyes that glared out from deep in their sockets, one blind and unseeing.  
Russia gave a mirthless smile, his face struggling to accommodate the expression.

“According to the report, yes. The soldiers said they saw a ghost, but the description they gave matched Prussia.”

“And where Prussia is, Germany isn’t far” America concluded in a sigh to himself even though he wasn’t entirely convinced. Those soldiers had spent eternity seeing little other than warfare, you could not trust their eyes to not conjure up strange visions. And even then, there was no guarantee Prussia was still around here, nah, not with that bastard. If he’d been sighted, he’d probably quickly scurried off somewhere.  
But hey, at this rate they would have to cling to whichever straw that presented itself to them, because they were on a bit of a schedule here.  

The battle in Berlin had ceased three days ago. Hitler had been dead for five days.

Neither Germany nor Prussia was anywhere to be found.

Months of a gilded campaign had been building up to this, it had been a race for victory with each and every town, with every raised white flag and every shell! And it had devolved before their eyes into something stale, with the artillery already silent and the smoke obscuring the sky like storm clouds, but the war dragging on.  
Everyone bated their breath, trembling in anticipation for the unconditional surrender.

And for Heaven’s sake, America didn’t have _time_ for this.

While the red flag blew from the remnants of the Reichstag, home just wanted to read in their morning newspaper that good old Nazi Germany was knocked out of the race but America himself was still a rock rolling down a mountain, he couldn’t stop.  
His feet continued to move to this accelerated waltz in his head, his hands jittery with agitation, because the world was greater than this, greater than this tiny piece of land, there waited a whole ‘nother ocean wanting to be washed clean.

And yet, he was bogged down in Berlin’s shambles with a half-crazy Russian, playing hide and seek with war criminals, wanting nothing more than to hop some islands and spin the planet around a little fast yet again. Something in his chest was seeking a way out, bright and glorious and burning, something golden that he had forged from this misery and hatred all on his own-  
and Europe with its blood and dust felt like it wanted to smother him and extinguish his fire.  
It always did. That was just what Europe did.  

He checked his watch, sighed and eventually stamped out his cigarette.

America and Russia moved quietly through the eerie streets together, and cold sweat collected under America’s collar with the minutes he could feel washing by. Berlin looked all the same everywhere now, with the same ugly faces around every corner, the same ugly screams from the apartments upstairs.  
Those two Germans could be anywhere.

“What makes you so sure the soldiers got the right guy?” America asked eventually, ducking left and right listlessly to look in through burst windows.

“They said he had an ‘impossible wound’ that spooked them” Russia replied with a voice like sandpaper, and tapped one of his stub fingers right on the middle of his forehead. “Had a hole right here, they said. They’d wanted to arrest him because he had a Volkssturm—Volkssturm-thing, you know what I mean, he was wearing that, but then they say they saw that hole in his head and he took off running. They didn’t bother shooting.”  

America wheezed a little, plastering a grin over his irritation and running a hand through his disheveled hair. “Why didn’t you tell me that we got such a lucky shot in? I mean, a clean headshot like that? Should make it that much easier to identify him for other soldiers. That is, if those don’t turn into headless chicken too.”

Russia grunted and carried on, again sinking back into the world in his head while humming a funny little tune. Kalinka first, mixing in with an entirely different melody as if he had forgotten how the song goes.  
America grimaced. It was starting to feel like he was working together with a zombie or a vengeful spirit that had lifted itself from the grave with pure spite. It hadn’t been that bad just months ago, had it. Months ago the correspondence had sounded pretty coherent still. Even if half of it had been criticisms because Russia was never pleased, could never settle with what America proposed without some suggestion for improvement.

Seven drafts.  
Seven drafts, that’s how many it had taken for Russia to sign the documents for the investigation. The last one America had had to deliver in person, so he could allow Russia to look down on him and thumb through the pages with all the time in the world. When the documents finally had the signature of England, France, America, and the Soviet Union, _with the approval of each government!_ America had been close to tears from the sheer frustration he had endured just to get to this point.

He was nearing that point again, kinda.

Minutes accumulated behind him into hours, and dusk threatened to soon settle as a blanket over the city.

What a damn wild goose chase this all was, wasn’t it, America thought to himself as he grit his teeth  while Russia still acted as if he were taking a leisurely stroll in Berlin’s spring, dismissing soldiers who dragged poor geezers out of buildings to their comrade in the hopes of rewards.  
But those men had been getting less as the day wore on and they got closer to those areas that were forsaken. Where before America’s gaze could wander up to the fifth floors of large apartment blocks where the Germans had deposited some of their last snipers, here the buildings were lucky to have two stories, their crumbling walls and structures reaching up to the skies above like singed crooked fingers.

He was no superstitious fellow and he’d seen worse than this, but America didn’t feel like dwelling in this place with its skeletons. But it seemed like Russia was off with his own plans once again.

One minute he was kicking rocks out of his way, the next America caught him tensing up suddenly, his bent back ramrod straight and his lungs heaving under the threadbare uniform in a way that reminded America of people who claimed to have been possessed.  
He tried to look away from it and uselessly dig through a pile of bricks just to busy himself, telling himself that now Russia had gone insane at last. Maybe the air here was starting to get to him, because it sure was making America light-headed already and he was breathing mountain air less than a week ago where Russia had been breathing in the smoke of millions for months.  
Maybe it had been stupid of him to put any bit of trust in Russia, America thought, but his fingers loosened their hold on the yellow brick in his hand one by one, until it fell to the ground with the reverberations of a needle dropping in an echo chamber.

Something in the air had shifted between America’s breath and the last, and his mind struggled to comprehend what it was.  
The world just seemed as though somebody had switched the depth of sharpness on a camera lens, moving things into focus that had been blurry on the periphery of America’s awareness, like the dirt and blood under his fingernails, the itch of his cap on his scalp. The air pressure against his tan skin, the brush of a breeze picking up, the squeezing of his heart muscle to pump blood through his veins--

He kind of wanted to yell, ask just what the hell this was about now, but the second he opened his mouth, Russia was already roughly pushing his way through a perplexed group of Polish men with motorbikes, past the charred remains of a tipped over car and disappeared in the cracks between two buildings with such unexpected agility that America stayed rooted on the spot in awe.

For just a moment.

Then America was already on his trail in hot pursuit, every sailor’s curse on his lips as he sprinted after Russia and taking corners just too sharp until his palms began to burn from the lacerations of pulling himself around bombed buildings, his muscles aching soon from their struggle against the law of inertia.  
Around them the houses grew sparser, and yeah, yeah he really wasn’t cutting a great heroic figure here but you try looking your Hollywood best when sharp little rocks embedded themselves into your hands and air ways. He would kick Russia’s ass to hell and back for this for sure.

He no longer had the time to inspect the wrecks that littered these streets, it didn’t really matter after a while whether he jumped over the corpses of abandoned tanks or actual literal corpses that had not been moved yet, it didn’t matter if his foot caught on plaster or flesh. His vision just zeroed in on that rat ahead of him – he didn’t get how he could keep the lead, how Russia wasn’t collapsing into an ugly little lump of meat, with the way he didn’t even bother evading obstacles and let himself crash into walls if it got him ahead faster.  
Damn madman!

When America’s calls fell on deaf ears, he briefly considered whether a bullet would do the fucking trick.

America let out another swear so loud some woman whimpered and pressed herself behind a damaged barricade (but why? Not like he was a Soviet she had to fear), and as quickly as it began, it all ended.

Sucking in stale and dirty air greedily America leaned himself against the still warm metal of a tank, a sense of gratification bubbling up in his chest so viciously that his ribcage was too small to hold it and he was forced to cough, watching Russia just a few feet away from him kneeling in the dirt and emptying his stomach.

“What the actual fuck” was all America said for a minute with a laugh bordering on incredulous over the sound of Russia’s hacking noises. He tilted his head back, the back of his skull making somewhat painful acquaintance with metal casing, staring up to the heavens in the darkening hues of blue above with the distinct feeling that he could feel the spinning of the globe, still faster than before.

Should have been humbling to be this small before the universe, but his anger and his Schadenfreude and perhaps the first hint of success had an intoxicating effect, so America couldn’t find a reason for humility. Not when he once again managed to keep pace with the planet, and well, look at him still standing up.

When he’d caught his breath and the dizziness subsided gradually, he let his gaze travel over the place Russia had led them to at last.

On the first look it seemed like more of the same that he’d seen everywhere else already, just another neighborhood that had gotten the short end of the stick. The same 19th century structures as you found them all over Germany, with once bright colors and arches, the few intact house facades still boasting intricate but now incomplete plaster designs. The sunlight was fading and there were cracks everywhere, however on one of them America could still make out Roman numerals declaring when it had been built. A.D. MDCCCLXXXXVI… Welp, someone didn’t know their shit. Time to formulate a complaint to a construction worker in 1896.  

But that wasn’t special enough to bring them here, was it.

The heaving in Russia’s direction became quieter and quieter, and when America could hear the man drag himself back to his feet, he deigned him with his attention. Russia definitely looked worse for the wear now, every last bit of color having drained from his face so that even the scars looked a little pale now. Under his broken body, a little pool of blood had formed.

“What’s gotten into you, buddy?”

Russia coughed wetly and hastily wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “A house-, they had an apartment, here. Here in this neighborhood. I remember it. They’re here.”

The sentences came out a little fragmented and Russia’s accent became so thick that America had trouble even making out what the hell he was on about, and even then, he could only blink slowly in disbelief. “You rushed here because… they had an apartment here once? How… How did you even find this from where we were. I don’t even have a clue anymore which damn district this is!”

“I know Berlin” was the brusque reply, and America cringed when Russia coughed again. “Do you think they’re really stupid enough to go back home?” he said with enough condescension to convince himself that it couldn’t be that easy. No way. Those Germans weren’t the brightest crayons in the box but you had to draw a line somewhere, if only because if it had been that easy all along... That was laughable. It wasn’t like that.  
Russia shook his head, his calm demeanor slipping faster than America’s friendly one. There was also a sudden clarity in his eyes, the hazy curtain over them lifted, and when he moved it was with a purpose he hadn’t displayed once since America’s arrival. “I know them better than you, America. They’re creatures of habit. Prussia less so but Germany—he doesn’t go places he doesn’t know. He’s like that, like a child. And as you said: they are never too far apart.”

“And why couldn’t you tell me and instead ran here like the devil was on your heels?”

“Night makes it easier for insects to come out. Let’s hurry.”

America laughed, and then it dawned on him that this was real.

So the search began in earnest.

America took to the looming house with the botched Roman numerals first. He looked up to the windows of the upper floors, spotting the sky behind them. Upstairs must’ve collapsed behind the façade and buried much of what could have been left there of the pulverized life inside. His shoulders a little hunched, America poked his head through the doorway where the door had been unhinged, and found exactly what he had expected and nothing out of the ordinary. No suspicious movements, not shots fired at him from the trash heap.  Just a silent grave.

America wasn’t gonna linger here. He moved on, down the street while Russia moved up in silent agreement over the shared workload.

The houses seemed to be getting shorter the longer America’s shadows grew, more caved in and more obviously broken the further he walked, and the less he had to investigate when everything was full of holes to look through. Made his work easy, even when one of the houses actually simply was short and he startled a cowering family as they sat huddled together in a makeshift living room.

And eventually only the saddest little house at the end of the street was left.

It stood a ways apart from the rest of the other buildings and it had to have been a newer addition to the neighborhood, because the remains of its architecture lacked the refinement the other houses had.  It was also the smallest out of every property of the street. Of it remained only the outer wall of the first floor, everything above that seemingly ripped off with brutal force, and America stood a bit hesitantly under the bravely standing simple arch that constituted the entrance.  
Unlike with the previous houses, there was not that much debris that blocked his path, that wasn’t the problem. He could easily step inside.

But what stilled him was the gaping hole that greeted him just beyond the doorway, the dying sunlight casting it into dark shadow so it seemed like the maw of an abyss under the broken wooden floor. America could just see that rubble and lose earth and other grime and filth had sunk down in there to fill up the basement and possibly its former inhabitants.

America’s lips were dry.

Against his better judgment he crossed the threshold with weak legs, unsure of where his sudden apprehension stemmed from. Or was it even apprehension? He felt watched. Like somewhere eyes rested on him, judging his actions. But was it judgment or anticipation?  
His fingers tingled, reaching out for something.

Oh boy. He stood on shaky ground inside, the wood having splintered just two feet away from him and a slope of dirt leading down below the floor into the hole. For safety purposes, America crouched down and inched closer to the edge, very much aware of how odd he must look. If his enemy found him first and got him like that…  
Something constricted his chest when he stretched out an arm and hissed against the splinters the dug into his already maltreated palms when he grabbed on to where the floorboards had splintered. Already his feet began to slip on the unsteady slope and he needed to support his weight more and more with his arms to keep himself from losing his footing as he stuck his head into the dark.

The hollow space wasn’t particularly large, as he discovered. It was mostly shadows playing tricks on the mind, transforming dark earth and bits of concrete into depth. America inhaled deep through his nose as he adjusted his position, the musty scent entering his mouth against his will.

And then he saw it.

He’d almost missed it, and he had to double-check to make sure he wasn’t just making up things now – but yeah. That. That was definitely a hand sticking out of the dark. And it was only then that America felt that familiar twisting in his guts again, wringing themselves like an old rag this way and that way, but it wasn’t nausea that followed as expected. Not even sympathy, or disgust, or gratification.

Picking a word for this feeling could wait, holy shit.

“Russia! Russia get over here _right now_! C’mon!” he shouted as soon as he had scrambled back to his feet and almost thrown himself through half of a window frame, erratically waving his arm up and down. “Russia I swear, move your ass over here, we got somethin’!”

Felt like fucking ages until Russia appeared in the distance, doing an awkward little jog because apparently that earlier little sprint had robbed him of much of the energy reserves he had left. Or maybe he thought America was the crazy one now. Which would be the pot calling the kettle black.

As soon as he was certain Russia could tell where he had to go, America pushed himself back clumsily and navigated his way back to the hole, allowing himself to slip this time, the small pieces under his feet not holding his weight like a pile of pebbles. He wouldn’t wait to get a shovel for this, no sir, not if this was what he thought it was.

He couldn’t make himself small enough to not hit his head on the way down, the space was too small for him to even sit up properly, but that became unimportant in the grand scheme of things. With his bare hands he began to dig in the dirt around that limp hand.

“It’s Soviet Union, America” Russia called a bit gruffly from the entrance by the time America had already excavated the whole arm. “Doesn’t matter, get down here” America just bellowed back over his shoulder and stuck one of his arms back out the hole just to make sure Russia could tell where he was.

America heard the pattering of rocks and junk sliding to the side under Russia’s feet, and then a loud _bang_. Then splintering. And again, and again, bits of wood raining down on America’s back and getting stuck in the fabric of his clothes. And still Russia seemed to struggle with fitting underneath, if his cursing was anything to go by. He had to crawl downwards on his stomach eventually, craning his neck back just to not immediately choke. America felt light enough to laugh at the display, neverminding how hideous it sounded and how much Russia would sulk about it later.

Let Russia sulk, who cared honestly, when America was about to unearth the biggest monster Europe ever did see.

Maybe Germany had thought himself clever when he hid himself here, and America smiled grimly as he dug away at the earth, but human flesh _decays_ my friend.

Russia was more in the way than he helped clearing the area and America had half a mind to tell him to get out and keep his eye out for Germany’s watchdog instead, but in a way it was just further exhilarating to have him there and fail. Made it feel like they were both back in a race against each other, who liberates more countries, who kills more Nazis, who finds all that stolen art first, who gets to arrest citizen Ludwig Beilschmidt who fashions himself the Third Reich? Friendly competition.

America was gonna win this.

Even when the earth clumped together, hardened and compressed until it felt like America was moving rocks that cut open his skin when he dislodged one stubborn chunk just to have another fall into place in a perpetual avalanche. As if Germany wanted to make him feel like Sisyphus in those last few minutes of freedom.  
One last petulant uprising against him.

The sweat of triumph rolled down America’s forehead when he tugged as violently as he could at that exposed arm and shoulder, causing a little landslide in this enclave against Russia’s protest, kept pulling and straining, until with one last tug, the earth released the body it hid.

And even in the dark, America and Russia knew they had the right guy.

Only their panting breaths rung out, but the rushing of blood in his ears made America feel like there was noise buzzing everywhere.    
In the sparse light trickling in from behind them, America and Russia met each other’s eye, a mutual understanding between them woven with fine threads. For the first time in decades, America saw Russia’s lips twitch up into a genuine smile, quiet and serene, as if he had been put at peace. And America too could not help the moment, the spark of joy lighting up the acid sea of frustration in his heart until he too was grinning, grabbing his ally’s face with both his calloused hands as if he weren’t repulsive anymore. Russia’s lips peeled back to reveal his crooked teeth, and then the earth rattled with their silent cheer.

Under the collapsing floorboards of a destroyed building in Berlin, victory was found.

“Let’s get the body out of here.”

That was the unceremonious part.

Moving Germany was like trying to carry around a wet sack, his feet dragging along the floor and his arms getting in the way. Needless to say, that was a bit sobering, when America hit his head again against the low ‘roof’ over his head.

Before long however, they had strung him out on the street where they had some better lighting and America had the chance to see that Germany looked like complete and utter shit. Most of his uniform was drenched in brown, dried blood, the fabric torn in many places, little holes where bullets had hit, and the right sleeve was missing entirely, exposing the mangled flesh of that arm. His face was still weirdly untouched by cruelty, but definitely touched by famine.

“Well.”

America wiped his hands on his pants because his skin was crawling with the unpleasant feeling of Germany’s blood clinging to them. Russia did not seem to have similar reservations about this and was already bending down to pick up Germany by the arm. “We should take him quickly. Maybe we can bait Prussia with him.”

“I’m more concerned about Germany’s condition” America laughed nervously, kicking the unmoving body in the side. No reaction. “I don’t think he’s gonna be able to regenerate from this on his own.”

“Why don’t we just kill him then? Now’s the best chance we got. Would save us a lot of effort” Russia remarked without a care in world, hand resting innocently on his handgun. The laugh in America’s throat became an unpleasant lump as his facial features were derailed, the cold chill sneaking down his sweat-soaked back making him pause abruptly.

And then Russia shrugged.

“That was a joke.”

America chuckled politely, and swallowed the lump in his throat.

He was still too high-strung he supposed, for joking around like that. With his heart drumming against his ribs so insistently everything just seemed more immediate, like each comment held the weight of the world. He was making history after all. He had to remember this all in all its details so he could put it down for tomorrow and let everyone know that he was too benevolent to hold a grudge.

With a sigh, America reached down and grabbed on to Germany’s left arm to help lift him and drag him as far as they had to until they could find some soldiers to help.

One step, two steps, god, Germany was damn heavy for somebody who seemed to have lost half his body mass…

“So this is what is left of the scourge of Europe…. Really, buddy…?” America muttered to himself with a bit of a chuckle, glancing down at Germany’s face and-

There was a squelching noise, wet, something tearing, the gush of blood

\--dropped him.

Just. Dropped him, on the spot.

Blood had splattered from the drop across the ground, over the front of Russia’s uniform, his own pant leg, America couldn’t see at first if it came from Germany’s head or whatever, was too surprised by his own shock to tell where all that red was coming from.

Not until he tore his gaze away from Germany who was back flat on the ground, and looked over to Russia. Who in his hand was still gripping Germany’s right arm.  
The uncoordinated drop had been enough to detach it. Blood dripped steadily from it on the asphalt.

“You dropped him” Russia stated, a hint of accusation in his voice.

“I wasn’t planning on it!” America snapped back, resisting the urge to run his hands over his face in exasperation, unable to tear his eyes away from that arm. “I was just—he opened his eyes okay! I thought he was out cold!”

It felt a bit shameful to admit that, America waited for the scalding mockery that he felt he could expect from Russia. But all that man did was flip over the arm he was holding, wave it around a little as if testing it out, and then use it like an extension of his own limb to pat Germany’s face with it. The head lolled from side to side without any resistance. And then Russia shrugged again. “Well, he’s out cold now. Should we take the arm with us? I mean… could try sewing it back on. I guess. Won’t have to grow back.”

America stared. “Ivan you know what—“

“Don’t call me that.”

“Yeah I will call you that, comrade—“

“I didn’t say you could—“

“What! I thought we’re allies—“

“So? It doesn’t mean—“

“Ivan, you are _seriously!_ Seriously ruining this for me! This was supposed to be a good moment! We got him, right? We fucking got ‘im. Just take the damn arm, what do I care. As long as you—oh don’t _point_ at me with it!”

“Is that the way you always treat bodies?”

The dispute ended right there.

That third voice came from somewhere behind America, tired and yet very loud in his ears.

Never before had America grabbed and pointed his gun as he had now, and the first thing that came out of his mouth was “Well didn’t you pick just the best moment to show yourself.”

Late hours really brought out the insects. Just like Germany’s arm in the dark ground, Prussia seemed to glow in the night that had crept up on them, his pale skin, his gray hair, even the wine red of his eyes. It was no wonder now the Soviet soldiers had mistaken the man for a ghost when they’d spotted him. America would have described him as more of a demon though.

Prussia’s expression was unreadable as he stepped closer over a rock, more light exposing the dreadful state he was in. The ratty coat he’d dressed himself in hung from a sunken in frame. He stumbled, badly, could barely walk a straight line and his wrists were thin when he lifted his hands to show he was unarmed.

“I surrender myself to you” he coughed out.

America couldn’t believe his luck. Quite literally couldn’t, his finger rested firmly on the trigger still, aching to put another bullet between Prussia’s eyes. He’d commend anyone who got the first one in. This Prussia was too calm.

Even as he tripped, as he held up his empty hands, his face did not convey any turmoil, any of that caustic pride and rage that America knew so well. This wasn’t the face of Prussia, was it. The face of a man’s downfall.  
Prussia wouldn’t just…

Surrender?

Would he?

The gun in America’s hand felt powerless.

Prussia almost smiled when he kneeled and America tied his hands together. 

* * *

_Following the arrest of The Third Reich (”Ludwig Beilschmidt”) and the Free State of Prussia (”Gilbert Beilschmidt”) on 5th May, 1945, carried out by the United States of America (”Alfred Franklin Jones”) and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (”Ivan Vladimirovich Braginsky”), the Commission of Nation-Representative Corruption, tasked with the investigation against the aforementioned arrestees and the investigation of the causes for ideological corruption with fascism, will begin its work upon the Unconditional Surrender of Germany._  
“Ludwig Beilschmidt” and “Gilbert Beilschmidt” will remain under house arrest.  


_Awaiting further instructions.  
_


	3. All is well, all is professional

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'll make this chapter more concise", I said to myself, and proceeded not to do that. I'm really sorry, this definitely turned out to be the longest chapter so far yet again. I swear I'm trying to pick up the pace but there is so much 'preparing' that has to be done first, so understand these chapters as such. Hopefully you get a kick out of it anyway! I am really excited for future stuff, so please stick with me :'D
> 
> Also, thank you so so so so much for the comments on this fic, it really lifted my spirits and I'm incredibly grateful that you took the time to give me some feedback <3 You're wonderful, and I will do my best to keep up the quality!

  1. Competences of the Commission



…

b) The Commission may make use of human resources upon request according to the need of the investigation until the stated purpose has been fulfilled.

...

-

Planets spun through space, worlds turned, and America’s stomach twisted around itself in the morning like it couldn’t keep up and tried to shrink away from the upcoming day. It was making him ill to sleep in this grave of a city, made him feel like when he awoke and dragged himself to his feet he was leaving his body behind, jittery and shaking like he’d had too much coffee and walked the thin line between elation and a breakdown. He was a child on his first day of school.  
The morning air felt unreal against America’s skin, ghosting through his hair and disheveling what he’d combed just minutes ago. How surreal it was still. He supposed it was a little like stumbling through a dream you had taken just too much control over, and now all that you encountered felt like an uncanny approximation of the waking world, and you lacked the words to explain the dissonance to yourself. His gaze drifted over the discolored house facades and the thin faces of women. It was all tangible. It was real. It was all there, all he needed to do was reach out…

America stretched out his gloved hand and let it wrap around the pole of a street lantern, feeling the cold under his palm and the ridges of rust and peeling paint even through leather. Tangible. Beneath his shoes rubble crunched loudly when he moved his feet experimentally, the sharp edges of stones poking his worn soles. Real. He kicked his foot and watched a cloud of dirt rise up along with the flying pebbles, fascinated by the mundane all over again, grinning with a trembling in his spirit.

He needed to get a fucking grip.

He played by himself another moment before he looked up from his fascination and across the street saw two children who had apparently been watching him intently. He still caught the quick turn of the head and the hurried way in which the taller child wrapped her arms around the other, protectively pressing them both against the wall. A normal sight by now, one that America had found in every other village of the country.  
All he was really concerned about was that they had seen him acting like a fool – of all the damn soldiers to stare at, why did they have to pick him? Cracking a friendly smile, America quickly let go of the pole and gave the children a wave, nearly tripping over his own feet when he took a step away from the lantern. Yeah, making a fool proper of himself now. Embarrassing, but at least the kids visibly relaxed and continued on their way.  
America let out a frustrated sigh, and then a curse, because when he looked down himself he saw stains on his clothes from the dust he’d kicked up.

When he’d picked out his clothes, it had been with the intention to look every bit the star that he was, every bit the victor with his badges of honor. Above reproach and untouchable like a savior. He had few things with him but he’d tried so hard to keep it all clean to show that he would not let them take this from him.  
But always a sore loser, Germany breathed his ashes down his neck and covered everything in fine gray layers of dust, dirty fingers that touched upon every surface and every crevice, a mourning band hung across the sky and around every bone. Even after the titan had fallen, a ghost wanted to squeeze the life out of America’s lungs.

But  America kept hearing the sound Germany’s head had made when it had hit the ground, the wet noise that his flesh had made when gravity tore it apart. Gods don’t bleed like that. Only men and monsters fall like that, and America was a monster slayer.  
But all that gray, all that gray made it look so depressing, and made days feel like eternity. Made him sick.

He was sick of Germany.

America took a deep breath to calm himself, his lungs feeling like his own again, and then buried his hands in the pockets of his jacket, walking on in a brisk pace. He didn’t need to check his watch and he didn’t need to hurry, he would be ahead of schedule either way, he simply felt compelled as he regained control over himself and realized that this time, he’d like to be there first. The meeting would be different this time.  
No conference rooms, no drinks, no comfortable chairs.  
Just him and them and the skeletons, no human intervention.

All of yesterday had been dedicated to human affairs already.

He left the neighborhood he’d taken temporary residence in behind soon enough, and even with all the damage and all the unfamiliar faces and all the shades of gray, America was beginning to see where he was. What this was. He saw damaged houses, and beyond them he saw what they had looked like in a distant memory – the shapes were no longer just shapes, they were places.  
America walked faster.

Eventually he took a turn, and before him the broad street opened up. He’d been here just yesterday, playing tourist and posing for pictures with a rotting hand on his shoulder, but it knocked the air out of his chest again. Big cities always had that cramped quality about them, too many houses and people crammed into once space, reaching too high as to block the sky, so when you had a ravine like that and everything broke off and heaven above opened wide…

Woah. Electrifying.

Russia really had made good work of the place.

That last bit stretched on for a long time though, enough for excitement to tip over into something else. Even with long legs it seemed like no step would actually take him closer to his destination, and America fought the frustration by gritting his teeth and pushing back his shoulders until it hurt. This was nothing, this was fine, this was okay, and he’d show up and radiate like the benevolent sun. And he’d be humble too, he’d be the picture of professionalism.  
He’d be so fucking professional.

Did you hear that, he thought to himself when through some miracle he finally walked between the brittle columns of the Brandenburg gate. Did you hear that, he thought once he was on the other side, a sea of garbage and destruction pouring down the boulevard he’d never know by its old face again, his eyes seeking for the quadriga.

Funny how Victoria in her chariot had her face turned away as though ashamed.

Victoria, he’d be so damn professional.

She didn’t answer. But he knew anyway that she was on his side.

While he waited, he distracted himself by watching the Soviet men that still hauled equipment around and who looked upon him with strange eyes. Many of them probably just saw how he stuck out like a sore thumb, so in color, so well-fed, casually leaning against structures that were threatening to crash onto him. Every once in a while however a look lingered, unidentifiable in what emotion it conveyed but obviously that of a person who saw him for what he _was._ One of them even stopped trying to dislodge the metal casing of an old car from debris to meet America’s eye over all that distance in a way that was painfully reminiscent of Russia. Empty and yet bloated with accusations and grievances like his stomach, that poor man.  
America waved at him the way he’d waved at the scared children, and brushed off dust from his jacket.

Coming here early might’ve been a mistake after all, huh. He checked his watch—too late to make another round or change the meeting point, too early to abandon the mission, oh well. This was okay. He was a professional. He could handle half-crazy half-starved Soviets ogling him. America fixed his posture again. There was no problem. No problem.

This wasn’t nerves.

He felt jittery because he was ill, had too much coffee, had gotten out of bed on the wrong side. He wasn’t a child, he wasn’t…  He was just impatient. America walked in circles, traversed the gate back and forth as he was shaking the ghost that had taken hold of him overnight. Waiting. Remembering that he ought to be happy. Smiling at nobody and nothing, looking at Victoria who could not bear to look back.

“Good to see you.”

 _Of course_ , the voice came from his back and to his credit America didn’t spin around. He turned leisurely like it was fine and kept his smile in place as he faced England.

 “Yeah, ‘s been a while!” America greeted back amicably and found it in himself to be genuine in the moment, puffing out his chest and looking down at the man as he stuck out a hand to be shaken as though it were a business occasion. That man that looked so sunken in now, body all wrong and hanging onto his crutches like they were lifelines. Just shaking hands seemed like a logistic challenge and America nearly worried he’d tip over when he felt those bird bones of England’s hand clenching around his own.  
America’s throat was tight, shaking in anticipation on the inside. First day of school excitement, ready to embrace, ready to accept.

So he raised his gaze from England’s off kilter nose and the dusty bandages wrapped around his skull, wanting to _see_ , wanting to _know, **ready** to be_ —

“I—don’t know what to say. It’s hard to believe it’s over—it really is, isn’t it? Did you see them?”

 When he tore away his eyes from the small parts, from the split lip and the cut on his too sharp cheekbones and came to see England’s face as it was, whatever America had dreamed up and hoped for was suspended and upended. Of all the built-up, America had somehow run over the edge of his dreams and his heart floated up in his throat.  
After that first Great War, England had worn a gritty smirk. He had been solemn and bitter and proud, toasting with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, but never once had America seen a crack in that armor. And now in Germany’s gray light, in a rumpled suit and propped up on crutches, England looked at him with tears in his eyes. His eyebrows were pulled up, the corners of his mouth twitched up in something of a smile. There was no arrogance in it, nor pride and dignity, just grief and relief beyond human comprehension and description. 

Only gratitude.

England was smiling. Smiling at him. Soul light as a feather.

America didn’t know what to say either.  
He had nothing to say to that, did he. This was it, wasn’t it? He felt sick. This was what he had wanted, wasn’t it.

“Arrested both of ‘em myself!” he said, wondering why he said it like that, why he postured. Why was he doing this. Oh god. He had what he wanted. Oh god. He kept his hands in his pockets, twisting his upper body from left to right and back while he didn’t know where to put himself, humbled against his own will. Victoria couldn’t look at him, and he couldn’t look at England like this. “It’s just a matter of time now until it all comes to an end, ‘s all already under way. You don’t need to thank me.”

Baw. There it was again, that scowl. America inhaled as if he’d held his breath.

-

Travelling on foot was a bit of a hassle with all the junk everywhere and England’s handicap, but it gave them time to prepare.

“So we’ll meet them there?”

“Precisely” America confirmed, fully back to his senses save for the occasional stumble. He’d get used to this yet, he told himself, and put his excess energy into kicking obstacles out of the way. “Thought it would be good for us all to get a look in first and then discuss…” he gestured vaguely “our mission. There’s a room downstairs that we can use so we don’t have to move or anything. Keeping things convenient and all that.”

England nodded to himself. “And why am I here instead then?”

“Wanted you to get a look at the Brandenburg gate” America joked, “Get ourselves acquaintance with this new Berlin I thought, and see what the old looks like with the new. I mean, it’s crazy that it didn’t break down, right?”

A scoff on America’s right side let him know that his humor couldn’t be appreciated yet. England was still taking the destruction in, and maybe he saw more than shapes too. “Cut it out” he reprimanded, voice rougher than usual. “You had a reason for this, just be upfront about it.”

“Ah, but I remember you teaching me it’s inappropriate to be too open about my intentions.”

“Cut it out I said.”

America’s shoulders sagged a little on command. “Okay, fine. If you aren’t in the mood for some banter, be that way. Honestly I just got some questions I wanna ask before we get to France and Russia. Because I think we can both agree that something isn’t right about them these days- not right at all.”  

They both slowed to a halt, lingering in the middle of the street and scrutinizing each other.

England waited with an anxious glint in his bulging eyes, clearing his throat, and asked after a moment: “So what is it?”

He was gonna be so professional. “Well, I just wanna know what you’re thinking of all this. Of what we’re gonna set out to do today. Not that I got any doubts about the project or any of the sorts, if we wanna retain any sort of official capacity after this fiasco it’s probably _necessary_ that we pull through, but we both know how it goes. You’ve got France, who’s just frothing at the mouth for some blood, and you’ve got Russia who’s just… lemme warn ya, he’s an absolute wreck. Bleeding everywhere, smells like a dead dog. He’s gonna have his own agenda in all of this of course, with Stalin playing his strings. I just want some damage control here, dole out some justice for y’all, and leave Europe with the feeling that you’ve got your shit together again.

So what is it that you want, England?”

Full of anticipation America glanced at the other. England appeared like he hadn’t been quite that caught off guard by the question. He just caved in a little further on himself with that look on his face that he always wore when he didn’t want to deal with something. He scratched his chin, his fingernails coming back dirtier, and let out a sigh.

“I want to put an end to this” he sneered. Offended, huh. “That much should be obvious, no? _Somebody_ here needs to take responsibility for this war, you were right there. No matter which one it’s going to be, Germany, Prussia, somebody will have to answer for this.”

That admission that America had been right in some way was so distracting that it took America to formulate an answer to that.

“…Tell me, gut feeling – which one do you feel is more responsible?”

Silence.

“…I can’t say.”

“You’ve got to have some idea…”

“No. No, I’d rather not.”

-

The house itself was a completely innocuous one if it weren’t for the soldiers milling about the entrance. A quick check of the tenant list and some inquiries among civilians had revealed that for the time being, it was as good of a base for their operation as they were going to get: three apartments had been vacated by their previous owners under probably questionably voluntary circumstances, which for them meant they could use those places without having to worry about having to make place for people all too soon.

Okay to be fair, they hadn’t known for _sure_ it was going to be that way when Russia had hauled the bodies up the stairs that night. But hey, they got lucky.

The closer they got the more impatient America had grown, so that by the time they had brushed past the soldiers posted as guards and had reached the stairs leading up the front door, he was all but pushing England along against the man’s protests.  
America was gaining sympathy for those young people he’d sometimes see, having to guide their ageing parents through the simplest of tasks while he shoved his own fragile relative up the stairs through the open door.

“We’re here!” America shouted at the entrance, feeling just a little out of breath.   

Mere seconds later there was a sound of a door opening from upstairs, and that familiar foul smell spread throughout the stairway as boards groaned under Russia’s weight. “Up here.”  
England too groaned, at the sight of the flight of stairs.

Russia waited on them and ushered them inside before they’d properly reached the last step, pulling the door shut behind himself with a bit too much force. Exit was blocked now, great.  
Was it just him or was it cleaner today. France must’ve snapped while waiting.

“What a pleasure to see you!” America exclaimed lightly as he entered the room off to the right side of the corridor.  
Maybe it was because he’d already used up every bit of his emotional capacity on England, but somehow his heart beat calm in his chest when he caught France’s eye. Couldn’t say what it was, but it just wasn’t as spectacular. Uncomfortable and something he’d strained against last night when he’d tried to sleep, but it didn’t do it for him again. That buzz in his head and his chest remained at manageable level, even when France rose to his feet to greet him.

And then America realized why that was.

There was nothing about France that betrayed any bit of vulnerability.  
With all the injuries and obvious quick fixes and half-healed everything, France had it in him to hold his head high. This wasn’t the stature of a man who was done or exhausted, but rather somebody who had decided at some point while he was falling apart that he would not acknowledge it, because he was angry. So angry that his rage would be enough to hold the small parts together.

“You’ve come. Good.”

America’s grin tilted. Oh right, actually that was something about France that was infuriating. Familiar, but difficult to deal with in its own right. America still couldn’t get himself to give him a hug of camaraderie, shaking hands it was. France’s hand was calloused and brittle too, at the end of the day.

With a sigh America let himself sink onto one of the chairs scattered through the kitchen, leaning back and patting his thighs while England had finally arrived with Russia in tow. He didn’t watch them, England and France. The embrace, or whatever they’d do to greet each other. He didn’t wanna see that.

Only when at last they were all seated did America tear his eyes away from the cracks in the tiled floor, his heart turning back into a humming bird. Back on caffeine, back on nerves, back to work. The volume got turned up all the way, everything in sharp focus. He had to make this a good one.

Time to address the elephant in the room.

That was, the two human doctors who had awkwardly shoved themselves into one of the corners of the room, visibly stuck in place, visibly fascinated and uncomfortable at once with the situation. Army doctors Marko Tymoshenko and Yurij Volkov must’ve had the worst day of their lives when they had the misfortune of having been available when Russia had gone out in search for somebody who had a bit more finesse in treating injuries than himself and America. Each time America dropped by they had that same forlorn look on their long faces as though they weren’t sure what they were here for, and, well, it had to be fucked up for them a little. Not every day that you got to work for your nation in the flesh, not every day that you were called in to keep two war criminals from croaking.

“Well then” America said. No good, no good, he had to-- “Well then! I’m happy to see you’ve all made it! Who would’ve thought!”

Encouraging.

“The unconditional surrender of Germany is upon us, and we hold both the nation representative of Germany and Prussia in custody at the present moment. Exciting news for us all! Great work from everyone! I’m sure it’s still gonna take a while until it’s sunk in for real, that’s all fine. For the moment I am just proud to announce that our committee can officially begin its work!” America tried to make it sound jovial for their sakes much more so than his own, and yet the acknowledgement remained lukewarm from what he could observe. Worst of all, Russia smiled. 

“Dr Tymoshenko!” America hurriedly called, pointing at the man who flinched at the sudden bold address, fiddling with a stack of papers. “If you’d please share your report with us…”

Tymoshenko quickly nodded and took a step forward, a bead of sweat running down his large forehead, but before he could begin to speak, America interjected: “We all speak Russian here, correct?”  
England shifted in his seat.  
“I take that as a yes. Continue, comrade.”

The doctor cleared his throat, his eyes darting back and forth between the paper he was holding with a mild tremor, his nation, and America. “Dr Volkov and I have examined ‘Ludwig and Gilbert Beilschmidt’’s physical state. The following report includes a comprehensive list of all injuries we could observe at the time, although we must state…” He paused, wearing a grimace. “We must remark that they are both in critical condition that made it difficult for us to catalogue everything. We cannot say for sure how damaged their internal organs are. We refrained from performing any major surgery.”

-

By the end of it America couldn’t have said how many different injuries the men had listed. At some point he’d drifted off to watch an insect that scurried over the walls behind the humans. Was it a cockroach? The place had been abandoned for a while. It stopped every few paces, and eventually disappeared behind the furniture.  
America had slid back into the now, and Volkov had still been talking about Germany likely having earth in his airways.

All that was certain was that Germany and Prussia were fucked up good and that it was uncertain whether they’d make it through in the end.

At some point Russia had taken England to look at their captives so he would be able to put a picture to those clinical words, and had returned with somebody who appeared like he didn’t know whether to be horrified or glad.  
Now they were just amongst themselves, the humans dismissed from their duty for the following hours, while there’s had only just begun.

“What do you think of it?” America asked into the silence.

France was fastest to respond as always on such occasions. He clenched his fist and with closed eyes proclaimed: “I’m not at all surprised by this. Although if they’re in such shape, I don’t feel it’s necessary to prolong things. If they cannot recover from this themselves, we have no obligations to intervene and help somebody back on their feet just to allow them to stab us again.”

 “Would save us a lot of costs” Russia hummed in agreement in the same manner he’d joked that night, and it still didn’t sound like a joke. “I have worked very hard to get here, so it’s just fair they do this last bit of work themselves. After all, we will agree on execution for them, won’t we?”

“Wait now, wait--” England piqued up, narrowing his eyes and stretching out his neck like a turtle in alarm.

“That was a joke.”  
France’s face fell.

“Very funny!” America said, straining his smile again. “Your humor is growing on me, but let’s cut that out for now, okay? Maybe this is over for France and England, but _as you’ll recall_ we still go a fascist on the loose and I’d like to get to that as soon as possible. But before then I’d _also_ like to have come to an agreement about how to handle the situation. We’ve already settled that we will _all_ be involved in recovering documents and collecting testimonies from those who’ve interacted with them, we’re gonna keep looking for their personal belongings, especially Prussia’s diaries if possible--”

“Or what’s left of them.”

“Or what’s left of them, thank you England—“

“I did what I had to, if that was an accusation.”

“Yes you did Russia, no we don’t hold it against you. We all had our hand in this. So we will keep doing that in accordance to how our leaders are gonna handle the government affair et cetera! What I’m saying is that the logistics of collecting evidence and witnesses has already been discussed and we got the okay to rely on information allocated for the purpose of trials against Nazi party members, so we can probably skip over all that.” America, having moved from his chair to sit on the table found himself fixed by three pairs of eyes, so it was crucial that he didn’t fuck up this up and let the attitude slip.  
The ghost was coming back even though it was day outside, it was creeping back into his bones as exhaustion. There was dust on his pants, on all their suits, dust in his hair, dust in his lungs. Dust was raining from the ceiling and it was getting on his nerves so so bad.

“The question that remains for now: who’s gonna keep an eye on them. ‘Cause last time we talked about this, it was under the assumption that by the time of capture, they would actually be conscious and with this situation on our hands...”

And suddenly they were all quiet.

Instead of answering, France pulled out a cigarette and lit it with some trouble. Obviously he wouldn’t volunteer to do the job, and from the looks of it England was much more interested in glaring a hole through the ceiling than to chip in with some help.

So that left.

America hated doing it, looking Russia in the face even though from this angle you didn’t see most of the damage.

“None of us have to do it personally. If Western Europe is too busy, we Soviet citizens can do it” Russia replied after another long uncomfortable silence, pushing himself away from the wall he’d leaned against. “They are in bad shape. Two of our doctors are already watching them and we have soldiers guard this building. We can have more soldiers do that, they need to stay here anyway. There is no conflict.”

A big sigh of relief. “Oh _thank_ you.”

“I didn’t mean to imply our men cannot do the job” France spoke up with ruffled feathers in a cloud of smoke. “I was simply under the impression… Well, it strikes me as a bit risky to pass on the work to humans.”

“How so?” Russia inquired, crossing his arms in front of his chest in an obvious play of intimidation. On any other day America would have found it aggravating, but from an outside perspective directed at someone else, it was almost entertaining. “We should have faith in our people. If they watch over them, then we will always have an eye here anyway. France, do you not trust your people?”

“I…” France didn’t finish his sentence and rather took another drag. “Some of my soldiers could assist then, certainly. I’ll make an inquiry.”  
England already assured his assistance before Russia’s unseeing eye could even find him.

Hallelujah.

It took all of America’s willpower to not run his hands down in his face, making half-murmured promises of aid. Sure had its perks to be the one with the money, because he could see in their faces that they were hungry for more than his hand, and yet the moment they would show their teeth… There was a power at play there that they all envied him for, and even if he didn’t hold a plain draft in his hand to dangle over their heads this time, it imbued him with confidence that even the starved wolves would not bite at him.

“There’s just something bothering me about it” France started anew however once he’d finished his smoke and pressed the stump against the table. “My earlier comment may have been dismissed by certain parties—“ he paused, “it should be obvious that the situation may change once more within days. We’ve reviewed the condition of both Germany and Prussia and it would be reasonable to consider that they may not make it. And in the light of that possibility I once again posit that it could be a simple waste of resources to invest in the maintenance of their bodies. We’d do it like we always have, no trials necessary.”

“If you feel that way you should have maybe pulled out of this commission long ago” England bit, earning himself a glare. As if England himself hadn’t complained about the investigation himself in the past.

“At the time that I signed the document it wasn’t like this, we just established that this is an inconvenient and unforeseen course of events!”

“Okay I’m sensing” America said, said and wished he didn’t have to. “I’m sensing that maybe this whole time we’ve neglected to discuss why the fuck. Why the fuck we’ve got this commission in the first place. France, you say you want to do things like back in the days, yeah? Stab ‘em good, or leave ‘em to rot, that kind of thing?”

France had the audacity to challenge his look, but he didn’t speak.

“Well good for you, because that probably would save us a lot of time that we could invest elsewhere, I’m not going to argue that. But you know why that’s a hell of a problem? Because if they really do kick the bucket while under our supervision, that not only makes us look pretty bad, that not only means that in a couple of years we could have new nations running amok, but it means that our careers will essentially be over.”

He stomped his food, getting off the table to pace around the spacious room, berating and congratulating himself wildly as the cogs in his head spun at maddening speeds. At the other end of the kitchen he stopped abruptly and turned to the others, bracing his hands against the kitchen counter. Why were they all quiet, why weren’t they making their bullshit comments, why were they all looking at him like that, they didn’t have the right—Oh he knew, but god—

“Things are changing! We already don’t appear in public like we used to! You saw it yourselves during the war, that, that they didn’t look at us like they used to, right? We’re tales grandma tells her lil grandkids. Make no mistake about it, with what’s happened with Germany we can expect to see ourselves further removed from active politics if we’re not careful. And I don’t know about you, but that’s not something I’m just gonna be okay with! If we prove that we can get this commission going and produce results and actual useful advice, capable of handling our own, then maybe we can stay where we are, but not if we keep bickering about what the purpose of this investigation even is!”

He threw his hands up.

“I’m looking out for you! So can we please put some effort into this? Can we have some professionalism here?”

Now he did and done it, didn’t he. His ribs hurt, hurt because they were dust, hurt because they were dirt and earth, hurt because he didn’t want to lose his temper. This was the past all over again.

And now they were quiet, all quiet like lambs, looking at him like they’d never considered the possibility before. Looking at him like they were too tired to muster up the desire to even try. France, France in his iron armor and his pathetic pride like it was ever going to get him anything, Vichy, and England, England who was centuries too late with everything and too wrong and too demanding for somebody on whom the sun would surely set in the years to come, and, and, and Russia, and

“He’s right” said Russia.

Russia. Russia of all people. His matter-of-factness had never been so comforting before. Heavy as he was on his feet, Russia could only give a sign of his support with a nod of the head, not gentle nor harsh in his tone.

“Letting them die without trial is a problem, so we put in some work. Yes? We didn’t come to destroy Germany. We clean up. We cleanse it. That’s what we are here for. We’re ‘liberators’, not ‘killers’. For captured criminals we set up trials and put them to justice. That justice may be death for them both, or for neither, we don’t know yet, we’re not like them. Or that’s what I thought, correct me if I’m wrong?”

Nobody corrected him.

America could’ve hugged the man. If he didn’t stink.

“I redact my statements” France sighed. “I may have recklessly spoken from a place of emotion again. Let us try to keep these criminals alive then.”

“Good that you recognize your faults” England said, back in the saddle of his high horse.

"Oh shut up."

-

They’d cleared up and cleared out after that. Had places to be, people to report to.

America had agreed to stay behind for the night to play guard. Worn out and empty of everything he’d felt during the day, he’d drudged up the first flight of stairs to check up on Prussia. Propped up like some alien being, something not from this world on his sickbed, and absolutely out cold. According to the doctors he shouldn’t have been able to walk towards them.  
His legs were too mangled to walk him anywhere.  
The soldier already posted in the room had admitted in a cold whisper that he was sure the man was cursed, didn’t want to watch him no more. Gave him the fucking creeps. And America tried to see it, and found it, and began to question whether that night had really happened the way he remembered it.

Prussia was propped up like a corpse and with his stupid gunshot scar and sharp holier-than-thou saint face he still held a mysterious power that America didn’t want to deal with.

So the only place to go was Germany.

The room was very plain as this was the apartment that had been without tenants the longest. Just had a bed and a partially disassembled wardrobe, and a desk littered in papers nobody would ever need again.  
Where Prussia had been left with only a thin sheet to cover his body, Germany had much less mystery. Maybe it was because his care had been more intensive according to the examination report, but he looked almost like he’d tucked himself into bed. Just sleeping.

This had a different kind of energy. America took the chair to drag it closer to the bed, and then let go again listlessly. Here was the ghost, sleeping away a few feet away, the dust on him. Here lay the greatest monster Europe had known in recent memory, and he slept in a room full of other ghosts.  
When he paid more attention, it was a place. The strewn-about papers had things to say. Somebody had sat in that chair, and they had really wanted to get this done, had really wanted to work on this. It was all technical drawings of things America didn’t care to understand. He picked up one only to let it float to the table. How would those people feel, knowing where he was? Knowing who was there.

He sat down eventually after all, catching a glimpse of Germany’s pale face. There were so many bandages and band aids sticking out. Little wounds that America hadn’t noticed after unburying him. He knew that they went all the way down. Tiny cuts and bruises and marred flesh that stretched all across the torso, eating their way down his left arm where there was little skin left to speak of.  
There were bones underneath that blanket that were so wrong the doctors hadn’t known how to put them back at first. Bullet holes that still held their bullets. Bullets that the flesh had simply buried. There was earth still trapped in those lungs that at some point must have stopped to do their job.  
So he could be silent as a mouse, unseen.

And despite all that, he looked like he was at peace. There was a vague fear that sat in America’s brain, that if he looked away from his sleeping face for a moment, he could be dead. Or worse, awake. Those eyes…

There had been a fever in them. Haunting.

 All he could do was watch then, for hours, and listen for his labored breathing. It all rattled inside. Little stones where they weren’t supposed to be. Easy work that even America could do. All that he wanted to do, really, after that little outburst. The excitement had faded out into a hangover.  
So it really was welcome, that Germany struck such disgust in the heart of them all, because it meant that America could have his peace too.

He breathed in and out. And it all rattled inside.

There was so much to do. When he closed his eyes, he knew of jungles and rifles, and of his brothers scattered across ships and islands so they could die over and over. And when he opened them, there was just this empty apartment.

In and out.

Suddenly there was a sound at the door, so startlingly loud in his ears that America could not place it. His chair toppled to the floor when he jumped up to face the intruder. The massive shadow that rolled towards him from the shadows put his hands up disarmingly at the gun pointed at it, and as the darkness peeled back, America could see it was Russia.

He should have smelled him coming.

They sat in silence together, observing their prisoner. America had his elbows on his knees, his fingers laced together lazily. Russia sat like he were awaiting a speech, all rigid and tall. Time had to be passing as the change in lighting indicated, but it didn't feel that way. It felt like being trapped in limbo with a killer and a bomb.

“Hey, Russia.”

“Soviet Union.”

“Soviet Union?”

“Yes?”

America balanced the words on the tip of his tongue, not liking how everything resonated in the room and his skull and how he felt like his skin had been stripped away.

“Thank you for earlier, is all.”

“Oh, I didn’t do that for you” Russia admitted readily, not bothering to face him. “I did it for them.”

“For them?” America repeated, incredulous and insulted that his gratitude had been thrown back in his face so easily. What business had Russia to treat him so. And he didn’t look sorry either. He just watched Germany’s face, the way America had. Was he sad? Did he look sad.

“For them. There was a point when…” He cut himself off, America fighting against the chill at his spine. The window had a crack, the cool night air had to be streaming in along with the light. “I thought of them when I said that. I don’t want to see them die like this, because we haven’t settled the score yet.” And Russia reached out with a faint smile, the wood of his chair creaking in age and strain, until his hand rested carefully on Germany’s forehead, moving in a strange caress.

“We’re all waiting for you, Germany.” 


	4. An apple a day keeps the doctor away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back everyone, thank you once again for sticking with me thus far despite the unpredictable updating schedule, and of course for your support in the form of kudos and comments <3 It means the world to me! 
> 
> This chapter managed to be shorter than the last even though more things happen (I think), I wish you much fun with it! Things can finally actually go somewhere lmao

Something curious happened to a man of the name Jens Eckart one morning.

 “Hey you, Mister.”

At 5:30 in the morning, Eckart squinted across the street sticking out his neck like a turtle out of its shell in alarm, hectically trying to find whoever it was that disrupted the morning truce like this. This had never happened to him so far when he was up and about so early, people didn’t accost you at that forsaken hour. Or it hadn’t happened to him, that was. He was very deliberate in his choice of shadows over afternoon sun. Who was this then, calling for an old man like him?  
There was an accent in that strangely smooth voice, not Slavic but foreign all the same. Enough to make him raise his shoulders in anticipation.  
When he looked around for the culprit however, all he could see there however was that pile of bricks and other debris that the women on this street had been amassing since the dust had begun to settle, the sun right behind it now. An ever-growing monument to something that his mind couldn’t yet comprehend, something Eckart did not want to look at.

The noise of rubble sliding under feet and of bricks clanking together rung out on the broad street, and with the movement finally Eckart could see with strain the figure trying to gain a proper footing on the little hill. A young man with golden hair stumbled around, slipping and catching himself with unnecessary caution until he had made it down and then immediately sat himself down at the foot of it at all.  
He gestured for Eckart to step closer invitingly.

Now, Eckart was not so naïve that he bought the strange smile on that soldier’s lips. He didn’t need to know much of foreign uniforms to have a sense of what kind of person this was. This was the kind of man that commanded a certain kind of presence, an unpleasant pull that drew your eye to him against your will, and those were never just foot soldiers. Brighter and more vivid than anything else around, that touch of charisma to his features. The kind of man Eckart was really damn tired of.

“Yes?” Eckart lamely acknowledged the address at last. Somehow he didn’t want to speak too loudly, so he told himself that he would step closer just so he could keep his voice down.

“Ah, sorry to stop you Mister” the foreigner spoke, the accent coming through stronger now. He didn’t look particularly apologetic, Eckart noticed with some disdain. “I would just—do you mind, I’d like to have a short chat with you.”

Well, that wasn’t really a choice, right. When a soldier asked you a thing, you answer.

Eckart came another step closer, apprehension caging his lungs to stop them from expanding too far. He didn’t like the direction this was taking, fast, and he peered around to see if there was not somebody else who would have been summoned. His wife would throw a fit if he managed to get himself shot when the war was already over, but to her misfortune all that Eckart could make out were vague gray silhouettes in the far distance.  
“What do you wish to know?”

The foreigner’s shoulders eased as if he had not counted on this answer already, and he clasped his hands together loosely as though this would be a very informal interrogation, smile unwavering. Growing by an increment maybe. “Excellent, excellent, first—uh, what’s your name?”

“Jens Eckart.”

“Ah. Good, nice to meet you, Mr Eckart!”

“Nice to meet you…?”

The foreigner blinked at him and the extended pause.

“Hm? Oh, my name? That’s not...” he waved his hand, shaking his head a little without looking at him, as though the question were absurd. Distracted twitches of the head, twitches of the eye, unwavering grin. “It’s not very important, sorry. I’ll be gone in a minute.”

 Eckart’s eyes narrowed and he buried his hands in the pockets of his worn coat, poking with one swollen finger at the hole by the seams compulsively. Another thread snapped.  “Well then.”

“So Mr Eckart!” the foreigner said with joviality, seemingly not even caring about whether he got permission or prohibition. His leg started bouncing a little, and Eckart moved further across the street. “How do you feel today?” the foreigner asked.

“Fine” Eckart responded without a moment’s hesitation, swallowing stubbornly around the proud lump in his throat that urged him to say that he was hungry. That was how the game had long been rigged; everyone knew that you weren’t telling the truth but as long as you didn’t speak your mind, there wasn’t much they could do you in for. The foreigner seemed to catch on, because his eyebrows shot up a little with his eyes widening, the smile at last dropping.

“Are you sure?” he asked in pretended casualness, looking around innocently. “I’m American, not Soviet. You can speak your mind…”

“I’m quite sure, yes” Eckart lied again, balling his hands into fists.

The reaction that followed was bizarre enough that it gave Eckart half a mind to take the risk and make a run for it.  
After hearing his words, that American suddenly scrambled back on his feet again, swaying without balance and staring with wide eyes – circled in dark and red by exhaustion as Eckart noted now – and then rubbed at his face with one of his hands.

“Really?” he breathed again and disregarding Eckart nodding, the American sighed and chewed on the inside of his cheek. There was a kind of erratic energy to his movements now as if that lie had somehow electrified him. “I need you to be certain, because—oh, well, can I ask, do you feel differently than you did yesterday? Like on a deeper level, like some kind of loss maybe—“

“No loss, no. I don’t feel any differently now” Eckart replied honestly this time, feeling the cold seep into his body from his spine. Something was wrong with this one, real wrong.

“No loss” the American repeated, and Eckart winced in unwelcome sympathy when the man let himself fall back onto the pile ungraciously with a noise that made his bones ache. Sounding weirdly out of breath the American said “Mr Eckart, thank you for saying that. Sorry for pressing but it really is an urgent business on my part.”

Eckart just nodded again. “May I ask—“

“You see, I have a—well, let’s call him an acquaintance. Two really, but one is worse than the other” the American continued without stopping to listen, startling blue eyes directed upwards to the skies. “He isn’t in a very good shape. Hasn’t been for a while obviously, with the war, but it’s really bad now. And, and we’re trying to keep him alive but he’s stubborn. Condition keeps worsening, he has a _fever_ now, and it’s… Everyone is making a fuss about it, like he’s already dead. It’s wearing me down, and I haven’t slept in _days_ , and they just keep talking— You know that feeling, when there’s something going on that you don’t really have control over and you want to hear as little as possible about all the ways things could go wrong, because it might just go over well, but everyone around you just insists on catastrophizing? Isn’t that the worst? No, the worst is that, well I said that it’d work out, and if it doesn’t, it’s all on me.“

The American ran a hand over his face again, and Eckart thought that he didn’t look a day older than 20.

“I needed to get out of there for a moment, and just… I dunno, hear from a German that it isn’t different now. And you do consider yourself German, right? You feel German.”

“…”

“Do you?”

“What if I do?”

“Then that’d be swell.”

“Fine then” Eckart conceded. “I feel German, and I don’t feel any different now. If that helps you any.”

“I’m _so_ glad to hear you say that, Mr Eckart.”

-

“Where the hell were you?”

“Thanks, missed you too” America greeted back with resignation when he stumbled through the door, giving England a tired smile. England’s stiff expression did not relax, but his shoulders gave away just a little, perhaps England was briefly embarrassed for once in his life.  
Embarrassed was what America was, for different reasons, but he wasn’t gonna tell anyone what he’d been doing out.

“Don’t look like that, I just took a walk. Feel like I’ve been cooped up in here for weeks” America explained as he shook out his legs and pulled at the fabric of his clothes to get them to sit more comfortably. England sighed. Probably thinking something America wouldn’t want to hear.

Oh well. Not allowing it to perturb him much today, America passed him by and proceeded on to designated patient room of Prussia down the narrow hall, hearing the footsteps over his head through the ceiling and ducking away from the dirt raining down from above.  
America poked his head through the door dutifully. At least here things had remained fairly stable, offering a weird kind of comfort even if the sight of Prussia the pseudo-corpse still gave America the creeps. Under the covers, a chest was rising and falling with breath, but that sign of life was what made it feel all the more wrong. 

Russia waved at him cheerfully from a chair by Prussia’s bedside, and America retreated.

America’s head was lead by the time he was falling up the stairs to the next floor, unsure whether it was physical exhaustion catching up with him or if it was a mental thing that made him struggle against gravity so much. The flimsy reassurance that had bolstered him mere minutes ago and had given him the energy to go back seemed to drain from him with every step on the stairs, like blood from a gaping wound.  
It was like he could smell the sickness wafting from the room through the cracks, and what sane person wouldn’t want to turn around at such a blatant warning of disaster.

The man standing guard immediately made way for America and so he stepped inside the apartment, imagining traces of foot prints on the ground for him to follow when really it was the snapping of voices discussing medical issues America couldn’t wrap his mind around.

“How’s the situation?” he asked when he arrived at last, grimacing at the scene.

The bed had been moved away from the wall yesterday in order to make it easier for the doctors to have full access to the body at the smallest issue, placing it close to the center of the room. England had joked that it looked a bit like a proper surgery room at this rate.  
Germany was no longer tucked in either since the blankets restricted him too much, instead they were constantly moving his limbs, propping him up with more pillows and then less, testing to see which position allowed him to breathe best despite the earth not yet excavated from his lungs.

Holding a bunch of sopping wet tissues with blotches of red, France acknowledged him with a nod. “Exactly what it looks like” he said grimly, pointing towards doctor Volkov providing his colleague with an arrangement of medical equipment that America roughly associated with cutting bodies open.

“There is a bit of progress” Dr Tymoshenko assured him as he fished around in a wound with a pair of big tweezers for a bullet, but the strain in his voice made it hard to really believe him, and Dr Volkov’s lack of support for the other’s assertion spoke for itself.  America stuck to the walls of the room for support, longingly eyeing the desk over on the other side. The papers he’d be admiring just the other day had been moved out of the way for the few medications they’d gotten their hands on, but he still wished he could just sit down nicely.  
God he was so fucking tired.

“Did you volunteer for this job again, France?” America asked, once again rubbing at his eyes to get the stabbing pain in his eyeballs to cease for just a short blissful moment.  
France, bent over to press the tissues back to Germany’s forehead shot him something of a glare. “Well, you weren’t there this time, and I wouldn’t trust England or Russia not to pull something funny. Somebody’s got to do the job then, and at least now we’ve got the arm attached as well as it can be.”

America managed a smirk, coining the implicit criticism into an expression of trust. After all, _if_ he’d been there…

“The problem is that we just can’t get his damn temperature down” France sighed in frustration, wiping away sweat from his own brow. “This effort better pay off.”

“It will. I believe it will” America said, speaking firmly despite his drained belief, if only so he wouldn’t have to listen to tirades of catastrophe again. The German had said he didn’t feel different, hadn’t let go of his belief- if Germany really were gonna croak on them now then he should have felt something, anything that was tangible.   
That’s how that worked, right.

France rolled his eyes at him.

And time wore on, and time wore on, and America couldn’t really say after a while if he was still awake. He was aware of his body still and the wall at his back. But France, the doctors, Germany, the ghosts around them morphed into shadows of themselves with blurry edges, and the alarm in their voices sounded like calls under water. Kind of like a radio program blaring over in another room. America gritted his teeth together and fought to get his feet back under himself, nevermind that there was a sensation of falling tugging at him. He could keep fighting gravity. Was the room spinning or was that himself, was it really getting dark again outside or was that a trick of the mind…  
The small dark tumorous growths they dug out of Germany’s stomach were just blots of ink, just ink, just strange ink that smelled like decay… 

America distantly felt his body slump and skid down the wall. But he could still see, could still see the needle redoing sutures and hear the pesky little bullet fall into a bowl with its brethren from preceding days.

Everybody’s faces pinched in an effort of something they didn’t quite believe in, just because they believed in orders and higher goals… Just because if it went bad, it would be America’s responsibility.  
He could see that.

 

When America awoke, he registered first that he had been placed on a chair that he was just barely hanging on to like a discarded jacket, and only noticed then that the people in the room were shouting.

Oh?  
Huh.

America’s skull was bursting under the pressure of a jackhammer and still he pulled himself up best as he could, blinking rapidly to refocus his sight on what was going on around him, vaguely understanding yet that he was angry that nobody had cared to wake him in this commotion.

“What do you think you’re doing!” somebody yelled, who?

“You don’t have any better idea either, do you?” another voice boomed, ringing in his ears. Slowly reforming, America’s brain tried to connect the dots and before he could restrain himself he blurted out the words that popped up in his head with bursting bubbles of thought.

“Can you shut up please?”

America blinked again, and saw that everyone was looking at him as if they’d forgotten for a moment that he was even there. Well thanks. Struggling to keep himself comfortably upright, he massaged his temples and swept the room for clues on what this situation was all about. The human doctors hovered almost protectively by the bed, one of them inconspicuously wiping blood from the corner of Germany’s mouth while the rest of him was completely frozen in place, France too strangely defensive in his posture all of a sudden, even though he was the first of them who would, if given the chance, wouldn’t he just kill Germany if it were convenient.

And only then America looked to his left, towards the doorway that Russia took up, carrying something over his shoulder. America could see it, spindly pale arms hanging over broad shoulders, wrapped in gauze where the skin had been chipped away and drawn back together at the wrists by metal.

“Oh shit, ‘s that—“

“That’s Prussia, yeah” France confirmed, nearly sneering as though the mere presence of that person polluted the air. As if that were possible, everything already smelled like corpse already, like formaldehyde or whatever they used to preserve bodies, everything between defiled and sterile. It took a moment for America to realize what this meant.

“Are you telling us the guy is awake?!” he exclaimed with some disbelief, and Russia grunted and shifted the weight he bore on his back. “He was a minute ago” he bit out, his breath going like an angry whistle, and the further he ventured the more the doctors backed away.

“He was barely conscious!” a strident voice came from Russia’s back, comically high pitched and accentuated by similar wheezing noises; England had somehow managed to drag himself up the stairs as well, so. The gang’s all here now, huh.  
“Conscious enough to ask about Germany” Russia deflected him.

“Cool” America said. Cool. What the actual fuck. He put his hand on his forehead and just watched with fascination at what was unfolding, not entirely convinced yet that he was awake. He had no idea how long he'd slept but evidently it hadn't been long enough. “Why aren’t you. Questioning him. Why drag him up there.”

 “You want Germany to wake up” Russia said. “Germany listens to nobody but Prussia.”

“This is madness, Soviet Union. You should know” France remarked, shaking his head and still he pulled out a chair and motioned Russia over to deposit their ghost, England following close behind with his face as pale as a sheet. England and Russia always were the most superstitious out of them.  
America at last pushed himself up, the manic energy of sleep-deprivation from the morning zapped from him and instead of assisting that very madness France had pointed out, simply watched his allies try and get a man teetering merely on the edge of consciousness to sit. They slapped Prussia’s cheeks, draped one of his arms over the backrest, arranged him like a bizarre art project while they told him to get his shit together. Even England got an edge in.

And when they stepped away, America still somehow found himself slightly shocked when unyielding red eyes stared back at him from a sharp face. America could not help but marvel at how even in such a pitiful state Prussia was clinging to some shred of dignity and at how he instinctively wanted to avert his eyes from that striking gaze. But in daylight Prussia lacked that ethereal quality that had scared America before. In daylight, America could see how shrunken in and fragile he really was.  

“Welcome back in the world of the living” America breathed out, feeling so light-headed from the odd relief that struck him that he forgot all about being disgusted. Not that he was really sure that Russia was right, that was just grasping at straws too, but with at least one of them alive they were finally getting somewhere. _Somewhere_.

America would be able to get out of this grave soon. He would escape the smothering embrace of bones.  

“Here’s your brother, doctor” Russia spoke, and pushed the chair a little so it was easier for Prussia to see the bed and Germany. Prussia said nothing in return, and the only sign even that he took notice of what was going on was that his eyes narrowed slightly and that his foot flexed, that little motion probably being enough to inflict a world of pain on him.  
“You should know what's wrong” France cut in too, playing along amazingly fast for somebody who just a minute ago had angrily demanded answers for this harebrained scheme.

When America looked to the side to meet England’s eye, England furrowed his massive brows and fruitlessly shrugged; at least one sane person remained, even if that wasn’t America’s person of choice by far.

And even the humans did their part, peeling away the remaining sheets to expose more of Germany’s body for the examination, America half-expected them to dutifully rattle off their report once again. Prussia twitched pathetically, leaning in ever so slightly with quite the exertion. He asked quiet questions to the doctors in Russian with fragmented sentences, if the bullet was still stuck in the skull. Earth still in his lungs? Arm reattached—yeah, the bone takes a while, always does. Fever, always fever, and the drugs don’t help. Especially not that one.  
It dragged on painfully, because Prussia knew an awful lot about what was wrong. He even knew about the strange ink blots that no doubt festered in his own body and he spoke of it with such clinical detachment that America wanted to hit him.

America knew already that he’d omit this from his reports.

Chair legs scraped over the ground when Russia ushered Prussia ever closer. “I’ll try something” Prussia spoke, voice so hollow like he were a tin man. “Go ahead” America asserted and gestured invitingly towards Germany, because if this was gonna happen then he might as well act like it was all on his terms. Prussia hesitated, maybe out of distrust, maybe to collect his spirits.

And then he murmured almost so quietly that America couldn’t make out the words, so quietly that he didn’t realize at first that there was a melody to the words spoken.  
Prussia was singing. Or at least melodically reciting something that America hadn’t heard before, something with Jesus? Jesus and Mary and thorns. A prayer maybe.

Okay, cool.

“Is he shitting us?” France whispered to America in disbelief, and Russia of all people shushed him.

Probably not, America thought.

So they waited impatiently, silently daring each other to be the first to put an end to this strange ritual. America for one found himself actually kind of curious about this, if only because he hadn't expected this course of action - for Prussia of all people to pray. It'd be one of those absurd stories to relay to his brothers, even if Canada might offer the mandatory reprimand for letting a man humiliate himself like this. Prussia continued with his recital undeterred by his audience, in a world of his own clearly until at last he broke out into a fit of coughs, the red of blood splattering Germany’s skin and pillows. Clothes rustled; somebody moved in to assist Prussia, America however was focusing on the blood stark against the white of flesh and fabric. Not just on Germany, Prussia once recovered held impossibly still. As if in a trance he simply stared ahead as drool mixed with blood ran down the side of his chin, and for a moment it looked as though he would recline in his chair. Admit defeat.

But it wasn't so, of course. Instead Prussia reached out slowly, his fingers shaking terribly and twitching when they neared Germany's face. And then they dug into the skin of his cheeks. “Wake up, Ludwig!” Prussia forced out, voice swallowed quickly in a trembling hiss of pain, his feeble frame shaken by his illness but he seemed unfazed even when Russia grabbed him with rough hands to drag him away again. With all the tenacity of a cockroach Prussia stemmed himself against the pull, his face breaking for the first time into an expression that America knew from him: bared teeth of anger.

“Ludwig, you coward, you're not gonna disobey now! Wake up, wake up or I’ll never forgive you!”

-

After that episode, Russia was vetoed out of making any more important decisions for the time being.

Prussia, now that he was awake and yet once more unresponsive, had been relocated. Not far away so they could still keep security centralized but just for now until they had a clearer picture of What The Fuck Is Going On. Because none of them really knew anymore by this point. (The humans had sorted out their basic shit already for now, lucky them.) England had been put in charge of asking some of those questions, but no matter what he did, Prussia kept his mouth sealed shut and his mind somewhere where they couldn’t reach.

There’s no miracle cures, the human doctors declared once the ordeal was over. Volkov and Tymoshenko worked round the clock and managed to extract two more bullets that had been nestled in the flesh between ribs, now that they had been given permission to get a bit rougher with their methods and dig in as much as they needed. Turns out they found one of Germany’s kidneys not only failing, but also in a place where one would not typically expect a kidney to be. Good news was that Volkov had thought the kidney could have been blown out of the body as indicated by a wound at Germany’s back, so this was a pleasant surprise.    
Also, Tymoshenko swore that those strange blackened veins visible through the skin were paling, while Volkov claimed the opposite.

It took another full day after that discovery to prove that Tymoshenko might be right because Germany had hacked out a lung (metaphorically!) in the middle of a smaller surgery to set his arm right and then asked where he was.

-

“Taking a walk really does work miracles” England said, a nervous little thing of a smile tugging at his lips.

The dispatch had reached them all by noon but Russia was stuck with the ‘Prussia shift’ as they called it and also sulking, and France had been chased out of the room when he’d tried to question Germany, so it really only left England and America now. And as fate had it, neither of them actually particularly felt like climbing those stairs today even though they both had politicians breathing down their necks.

“See? Told ya. After that disaster the other day…” America replied, politely not pointing out that England was more limping along than walking. In all honesty, America would have preferred to be on his own so he could have let it sink in better and so it wouldn’t feel again like he’d been sucked out of his body, so he could have felt. Well. How he _should_. He wanted to turn inside and marvel at what he could find, at the vividness with which he could curse this place and at the specters he could encounter. Maybe he would’ve run into some German again that he could’ve harassed into listening to his woes and his joy.  
England really was subpar company in that sense, but he was old and empty enough to count as an undead too, and sending him away would’ve just created more problems in the long run. Keep your allies closer, always.

“Guess we can’t really run from it all day” America acknowledged eventually when the house came into view again up ahead. “Even if you take giant strides” England chastised, sinking onto his crutches with exhaustion the way only old men can. “And because I don’t trust France not to pull something funny.”

America laughed. “He said the same thing about you.”

“Pah, typical of that old pest.”  
Said with fondness. America could always tell when England meant it and when he didn’t.

Ever the gentleman England suggested that he go up first. Just as America put his hand on the banister though, England touched his arm to halt him, an alien expression of nervous concern on his face. For a second he seemed like he didn't actually want to say anything after all, his arm dropping to his side again, but then he did ask “What do you intend to do when you go up to talk to him even?”

“See what we’re working with.”  

Two sets of stairs had never seemed like such a journey before and America was breathless by the time he’d climbed all the way up as if he too had aged a couple of centuries on the way. Right at the door he was greeted by Volkov; the doctor looked like the living dead too, although he actually had reason to. “He’s not stable” Volkov stated with a stern look from behind round spectacles. “The kidney is still—“

“I know, the kidney is not where it should be right now and his heart rate and blood pressure are too low, not to mention all the other issues” America waved it off preemptively and pushed past the man with another assurance that he would be gentle with the patient. Gentle like one would be with a raw egg.  
Inside Tymoshenko was sitting on the floor in the hall with his legs stretched out, sound asleep. America carefully stepped over him.

The door creaked ominously when it swung aside to let America through, making him feel like he was peeking through the crack of the closet door in search of the monster that he knew hid inside. No longer fearful because he knew he was right. 

The room was very much the same as it had been at his last visit and Germany actually also still looked nearly the same, with the only change there being that this time around his breathing seemed a bit more regular and his eyes were open. Sort of. 

“Hello, Germany. Long time no see.”

Silence.

Noises from outside were audible even over the beating of America’s heart, the collapse of facades and the distant murmur of voices and the roar of engines. Life was resuming outside.  
The window had been opened a little to let in some fresh air and the curtains billowed in the light breeze that snuck in.

“How are we feeling today?”

No reaction. This could take a while, alright.  
With angel’s patience America went through all the other platitudes that he knew one could utter in such a situation. Reminiscence about all the times in the last couple of days that they’d been together, how America had watched over him at night, hearing death in his lungs.  
Well, maybe not that part.

But America did try very hard to stay friendly and to just talk to fill out the silence, all the while studying Germany’s features for any sort of crack in that stone face. Germany more than anyone that America knew had a terrible case of poker face even at the best of times so he wasn’t quickly discouraged from his endeavor, although it did grow frustrating after a while.  
It was already hard enough to be here.

America abandoned the chair he had been sitting in, beginning to circle the bed- or rather, pace around the room, he wasn’t trying to be intimidating. He just wanted a crack, a hairline fracture, not for Germany to cave in on himself.  
Hand brushing over the flat surface of the desk and guiding it in between the stuff set down there, he wondered what he could say that might get through that broken skull and banish what had haunted America since his damn arrival in Berlin. Even now the walls seemed to bend to accommodate something that he couldn’t see, like some spirit was steadily seeping out of Germany that needed the space.

“You know. We should’ve stuck together, we young nations” America tried again, recalling something he’d once said to Germany when they’d just started calling each other human names. Wow, that was a lifetime ago wasn’t it.

“We brought your brother somewhere else, I hope you don’t mind.”

Metal hit metal hit ceramic, almost tipping over. Curious noise, but he had to be more careful if he didn’t want the doctor breaking down the door to apprehend him for medical equipment crimes. Germany blinked, staring at the ceiling.

“Maybe you are fine with it? I know what it’s like with an overbearing brother, getting some distance can really make it easier to breathe.”

Another extended hand, no reaction.

A motorcycle drove by in the street, howling below.

“I don’t hold that against you.”

Nothing. America sighed.

“Germany, I know of all your problems, the vocal chords aren’t one of ‘em.”

Okay, that was just being obnoxious, of course Germany didn’t say anything in response to that, but by now America could feel himself growing obstinate in a fit of immaturity so he kept at it despite the lack of response, speaking of all the medical issues that he still remembered Germany having. He'd retained a good deal, considering he'd been spacing out so much.

He continued to walk in circles and play with whatever was there to catch his attention, time tangible in its passage as his eyes traced over and over the same patterns in the damaged wallpaper. He was wearing down just like his soles and the floor.

Fine then, America could keep at this all day.

After another hour, he sunk back into that same chair that they had shoved Prussia so unceremoniously onto and tipped back his head as he exhaled the stale-tasting air filled with nothing but the echoes of his own voice.  
God, how could one man be this _stubborn_.

“Why are you doing this to me?” America whined at long last, theatrically touching the back of his hand to his forehead against a pounding headache. It was so tangible that he could feel it hitting against his skull. “Haven’t you done enough?”

Sight swimming, America covered his eyes and allowed his world to be swallowed by soothing darkness, images of his country tugging at the edges of mind with tempting scents and touches of summer’s call.

It was important to remember. Somewhere other than here existed. Somewhere other than here, today was a nice day. There was a nice day out there, out there for him to experience, and there was absolutely nothing keeping America here anymore.  
He had been released! He was free to go!  
The specter wasn’t there, and the dust, and the dust could easily be washed out of his clothes and his soul.  
Before he knew it, America was standing. Walking towards the exit.

“You look really innocent like this. Do you even know what you’ve done wrong, I wonder?” America laughed in exasperation into the void, ready to throw in the towel as he fixed Germany with a desperate look.

“I do.”

And before his eyes years melted away from that face as Germany struggled to sit up right. His shoulders remained hunched and his frame had grown small. A once handsome face had sunken into the shapes of its bones and Germany’s eyes shone weakly from deep in the shadows of his eye sockets, but they were perhaps for the first time seeing again.  
Engines, voices, rubble, debris, facades collapsing, something that sounded like birdsong  
maybe a prayer, far away,  
America’s own breath.  
Germany turned painfully slowly, his mouth slightly agape and his eyes so painfully wide and alert. He looked so horrifyingly forlorn all of a sudden, like some lost boy (he was young, right, so much younger--), still processing, still unable to comprehend the sheer scope of the situation and the severity of his sin.  
And as he opened his mouth to speak, his lip quivered just barely, his eyebrows pulled up.   
So full of remorse.   
So, so fearful. 

“I didn’t win.

-

“Did he say something to you?” England asked, hanging around the entrance hall of the building together with France like vultures.

“No” America said, feeling the urge to throw up with the word. “Nothing.”


	5. Atom Bomb Baby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, another look into all the small stuff that needs to be taken care of! I don't have much to say about this one because I don't think I'll ever be satisfied with what I write anyway haha  
> Thank you for reading and for supporting this fanfiction <3

_Excerpt from the protocol from XX th June, 1945 with “Gilbert Beilschmidt”  
Interrogator:  “Arthur C. Kirkland”_

_< …  >_

_K.:  Your brother was found buried in a basement. Were you aware that he was there?_

_Beilschmidt: <unintelligible>_

_K.: Did you have information of his whereabouts?_

_Beilschmidt: How was he?_

_K.: Please answer the question._

_Beilschmidt: I knew [Braginsky] and [Jones] would be coming soon._

_K.: Did you bring [L. Beilschmidt] to the basement?_

_Beilschmidt: He was unconscious when I got there._

_K.: You are avoiding the question. Are you admitting you--_

_Beilschmidt: No._

_< ...  >_

.

.

.

Not even half a century ago, ‘American’ was almost an insult in European clubs. It was synonymous with the cheap and interchangeable, you know. The American way of manufacturing applied to culture.  
Of course nobody thought like that anymore, if you asked them. But they did, if you just paid attention. America to them remained the land of the quick and easy fixes.  
Screw what they thought of him.

America brushed over his lapels to right the fabric and to dry his palms. He was technically running late again.

This time it wasn’t his reluctance that had kept him away. Despite the exhausting beginning of May, communications had been going smoothly ever since, giving him relatively little reason to be concerned. Russia’s reports came in on time as well as those of Britain and France, nobody seemed particularly invested in starting an argument. He wasn’t worried about them.  He wasn’t worried about the politicians either.

America scratched at the dry skin at his wrist in frustration, under the leather band of his watch. Up ahead he could already make out the palace’s rather striking half-timbered exterior, and even with its more natural colors it was already a great deal livelier than anything else America had seen around here, encouraging him to hasten his pace further.  
Finally a nice place in Germany!  
In no time America crossed the remaining distance, too excited to be bothered by the reaction he elicited from the human officials of his delegation according to whose schedules he shouldn’t have been here for another half an hour, or by the slow onset of summer temperatures. Among the figures America spotted a familiar face though, so he lifted his arm to wave as he approached.

“Sorry, I was held up against my will!” he called, breaking out into a half-jog for the last few meters with his briefcase pressed against his chest. He could feel his hair freeing itself from the style he’d combed it into with every bouncing step. “My schedule was changed around unexpectedly, and I wasn’t informed on time, can you believe it! On a day like this! …You didn’t have to wait for very long, did you?”

Breathing a bit shallow, he sheepishly looked around between the faces of his colleagues; England’s exasperation, France’s apathy, Russia’s strange hospitality, and before any of them could say much at all about his tardiness, he was already walking up to each of them to put one hand on their shoulder and give them a firm handshake, expressing just how pleased he was to meet them well in a rush of flattering words.  
As he moved from one to the other he could practically feel their looks of confusion. What had gotten in him to act like this? So good-natured? Well, America wasn’t all that sure either. Maybe it was the light, maybe it was the scenery, but they all just looked less miserable to him today. Maybe distance had made his heart grow fonder. Maybe victory had finally taken hold. Maybe trying to explain it would take the magic out of it.

Even Russia’s face was easier to look at.

“Good to see you, America” Russia said and returned the pat on the shoulder with just a bit too much weight behind the gesture so that America nearly lost his balance. A twinge of irritation, and yet he chose to just laugh it off. Haha, typically Russia! Good to see you too.

Nobody said anything about America being late this time. Brimming with goodwill, America allowed himself a brief pause of respite with mindless small talk as they loitered outside by the gate. It had been so difficult to have any proper conversation with these men just two months ago because all they could talk about and all they could think about had been the war. Every sentence, every word had been said on the backdrop of war. Everything had been war and dead and stale, and it was just… nice, to have a conversation about literally anything else for once.  
It also gave America a good opportunity to scrutinize his allies just a bit closer when they all had their guard down. What struck him was that visually, not a whole lot had really changed about them in the time that had passed. France’s hair was a little longer again, England had at last been allowed to wear a suit that actually fit him apparently, Russia’s burns glared less aggressively red, yes, but aside from those things they were all very much the same. Still crooked and bent and sick, still ugly. But the way they carried themselves was different this time around, like they finally understood the weight that had been lifted from their shoulders.

America beamed at them.

 “We should head inside so we don’t go off schedule. Which was the room that you said was prepared for us?” England said eventually, turning to Russia. Russia pondered.

“It was…” he started, staring blankly as he was struggling to recall the name.

“Can’t we just set up our things outside?” America suggested impatiently when nothing came. “It’s a nice day I think. We can just set up a table somewhere and some chairs… At least for today? We’ve got so much time to be cooped up inside later on and none of what we’ll talk about will be what a casual eavesdropper can make sense of.”

England scrunched up his nose. “That would be much too informal.”

“As much as it pains me, I have to agree” France said, exhaling deeply, and stomped out his cigarette. “It wouldn’t be a good look at all, right?”

“The room’s name isn’t important. You’ll have to just follow me” Russia said brusquely, cutting off America before he could raise any counterarguments.  
And so America’s good mood was dampened. A little.

Like geese they followed behind Russia through the gate, with Russia at the helm and America at the end so that England in front of him with his crutches wouldn’t fall behind. They passed through the stone archway into the main courtyard, course set towards the three arches of the main building where their delegations and leaders were already busy discussing the course for the future. America’s heart pounded.  
People hurried around them, announcing their arrival unnecessarily, but there was neither time to stop and chat nor to marvel much at the building’s interior even though America had always had a thing for architecture.

They were lead into the west wing of the building, quiet among themselves until at last Russia opened a door for them and motioned them to get inside.

The room allotted to them had been stripped of any and all furniture not too long ago, the stains of where something had been standing until recently were still visible.  The only furnishing left in the barren place then was a pretty simple round table with four chairs arranged evenly around it. While the wooden paneling of the walls was a bit dull and slightly damaged in places, the conference table of theirs was polished and in pristine condition, marking it as a very recent addition.

“It’s custom” Russia said, falling into the chair helpfully marked with a small Soviet flag.

America looked up at him while searching for his seat. “Huh?”

“The furniture, you were staring at it” Russia elaborated, tapping on the table surface. “We made it for this occasion. The ones the leaders have too, it’s all new.”

Oh right. America had heard something like this, that the Soviets were busy bees when it came to fixing this place up nicely for the conference. “Didn’t you see the courtyard? Interesting landscaping, Soviet Union” France said with a snort, pointing over his shoulder to the window. America had, in fact, not paid much attention to that. He went over to the window, looked outside. Went back to his seat, sat down.

“Oh wow.”

In the middle of the lawn of the courtyard, somebody had cultivated a red star of flowers.

Russia smiled, skin around his eyes crinkling where it could. “We want to make everyone feel welcome. You’ll like the American quarters.”

“Thanks” America said, not feeling very thankful.  

“The efforts are appreciated” England commented diplomatically, struggling to balance his crutches so that they would not get in the way of anything, before bending down to pick up the briefcase Russia had carried for him. “But, talk about the scenery can wait until later, no? We’ve already been dawdling too much.”

Right, right.

Alright.  
America had been preparing for this ever since he knew it would be coming. He’d practiced his words and his expressions, he would do just fine. He could improvise if practiced didn’t sound good anymore. That was the American charm. He stood and fixed his tie up, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a smile. This time around he wouldn’t let himself get caught up in the mood.

“Before I left for Potsdam I had briefly considered drafting up a little speech to give at this point. Considering the magnitude of all that we’ve accomplished so far it appeared only appropriate to go through the most important junctures that have lead us to the current day” he started, shoving his hands into the pockets of his pants as an image of informality.  
“I don’t think I need to bore any of us with that though. How’s a speech supposed to really appeal to the reality of what we’ve been through?” His eyes demonstrably lingered on Russia and France, their backs to the light from outside. “So to open this conference I’d just like to instead express my- utmost gratitude. We’ve come a long way since Casablanca – we have apprehended the two perhaps greatest war criminals to have ever plagued this earth, and further we have ensured that they may face justice for their actions. We aren’t going to repeat the mistakes of the past. We aren’t as unprepared as we were at Versailles. This time we will make it right, and make sure history cannot repeat itself. That is a task only _we_ can take on.  
My hopes for this committee are that we will continue to work together as the allies we’ve grown to be and that we’ll use all the resources at our disposal to produce the results that are not most convenient, not the most practical, but the ones history needs us to present!  
  
For today the agenda shall be a review of the work that still lies before us and the progress we’ve already made.”

America dropped his shoulders, not rallied by his own words as much as he was by how inconsequential it felt to say them. There was no weight to them, they could float in the empty space. He hadn’t felt that vice around his neck this time that had made him talk like an idiot.  
He stood above this now.

“England is in charge of the protocol for this session” he announced as he settled back into his seat, a bit flustered by the silence that followed him. Everyone just sort of nodded at him, their fingers laced together.

For at least an hour the atmosphere remained slightly skewed, but America couldn’t say in whose favor or at whose disadvantage. He just felt weird and he just knew it had to do with them somehow, because he was perfectly normal. Well, okay, he wasn’t. But it was different in his case. He was different because he knew something they all didn’t. He was different because he was restless, because he knew of deadlines, he was far ahead to the horizon. He wondered when he might drop that bomb—

“Any news from Austria?”

“A dispatch came in last week, yes” Russia confirmed and dog-eared the document he held in his hands. “He’s thought our offer over again. It said that he does not want to give us a written statement beyond what he has already said, but that he’s very much willing to testify in person. Transport and lodging would be an issue then.”

“We can afford it, we’ll discuss the details once we know when we can start with the interrogations proper so we can get it all done in a cost-effective and timely fashion” America waved off that concern, leaning back in his chair. Why had Austria let Russia know first, of all people? “Having him come up here to testify is ideal. It would put additional pressure on Germany and Prussia to know that he’s there… Ah, Ru—Soviet Union, I do need to ask, what about your ‘comrades’? Any news from them?”

Next to him, England shrank down a little in his chair, and France shot him a warning look. Russia smiled still. “No. It’s all still very fresh for them, so they don’t want to be near them. I don’t want to pressure any of them to do this, so I have given them all the option to give a written statement far away from Berlin” Russia explained. “But of course I’ll check in with them. They’ll let me know if they can stomach it. I won’t be cruel to them.”

How benevolent.

“To briefly return to the matter of Austria—” France jumped in to diffuse the sudden tension, his jaw clenched slightly. “Will we proceed in his case in a similar way to the Italies? Considering his… dedication to contributing to our investigation and past experiences with him, I would not rate the chances of him trying to escape particularly high and since we decided against prosecuting him in a similar manner as well anyway, I don’t see much reason to confine him to house arrest any longer.”

“I would support that suggestion” England said with narrowed eyes, looking up from his notes. “Let Austria know we’ll call upon him whenever he’s needed and that until that occasion he will be set free and put under surveillance. It means we could reduce spending on overall security and it might improve our standing with him if we show lenience towards him. If there surfaces any evidence placing more blame on him than previously believed we’ll have the flexibility to change our approach, but currently it would be the most practical decision. Are we in accord with this course of action?”

America looked at Russia. Russia stared back, for some reason.

“I said, _are we in accord_?” 

“Yes” America said. “Yes, I think that is just fine. We should just suspend the final decision until the end of the conference.”

 Russia nodded in agreement as well, and so England made a disgruntled noise and scribbled something down for his protocol. With how annoyed England looked, America kind of wanted to snatch it up after this session just to check what exactly and how England was recording this, but it probably wouldn’t be a show of good faith to stoop to such actions just yet.

“Anything else on the subject of testimonies from nations other than the ones gathered here?”

“Monaco has made…” France grimaced and pinched the bridge of his nose. “…several appeals to us, she wishes to testify in person. It appears though that she has very little in the way of relevant information, so I’d like to send back a unified statement from us that she will not be needed for such a thing and that a written testimony will suffice.”

It was granted. France laughed and joked about how she’ll be angry with him because she’ll think he’s not taking her seriously. He is, he does, she’s just such an unreliable narrator and what she’s seen does not, could not amount to any of what they saw. Russia chuckled, god, he had a loud voice.

“Is that all then?”

America scratched his wrist, hearing the ticking of his watch.  
Heard, far in the distance—

He didn’t say anything, and so the conversation moved on.

.

.

.

Despite the season, America was freezing in the early morning hours.

France somehow managed to look entirely unbothered by both the temperatures and the hour, and the only admission of discomfort he allowed himself was when America had to help him into the waiting car.

The world was still blue when the engine of their vehicle cut through the deceptive silence, creating a strangely comfortable background noise to America as he let himself hunch over, looking bleary-eyed out at the scenery passing them by. His body felt like a crumpled-up sheet of paper because he’d been tossing and turning all night, but his mind was sharply awake. Painfully so.  
He couldn’t stop thinking of what lay ahead.  
Couldn’t stop—feeling nervous. Not as bad as two months ago. Not like that. Not possessed, or like he was in a dream.  
This was all his own.  
This wasn’t about _them.  
_ His heart was pounding.

The Soviets had done their best to restore some of the roads they would need, but still every once in a while the whole carriage was shaken by the unevenness of their path, startling America out of the comfortable lull he kept falling into every few minutes. After the fifth time, he decided to give up and to turn to France for distraction.

“How’re you today?”

France opened one eye. “Oh, tired mostly.”

America hummed, his brows knitting together. Great, that gave him absolutely nothing to work with. Should he say that he felt the same? America ran a hand over his face.  His eyeballs did feel a little like they were gonna pop out of his skull.

“Anything else?” he asked after a few seconds.

“Not really” France responded and America caught him suppressing a yawn, subsequently unable to hold back his own. “I suppose I’m not particularly thrilled to be here right now.”

Ah. France had already complained about getting stuck with ‘babysitting’ months ago, which was understandable. None of them wanted to job, except maybe Russia, who didn’t get the job because of exactly that. That France got saddled with it was a decision of pure practicality. The commission needed him, but the humans didn’t. Like in Casablanca, the doors were shut to Frenchmen. And if England and America and Russia would be let in to listen in on their leaders arguing the future of nations, then France would have to be kept busy and useful somewhere else.  
And that was kind of France’s own fault for expecting anything else, but rubbing it in might not go over too well.

“Well, it might be fun?” America offered.

“Fun?” France repeated with a tone that had America lean away in anticipation of a scolding.

America shrugged. “What do I know. I’m just trying to make conversation, if I’m honest.”

A wheel of the car dipped down unexpectedly and America and France bumped into each other painfully, injured shoulder knocking into injured shoulder. They hissed in pain simultaneously, making America laugh.

“Don’t you think Russia is being kind of weird” America said, quieter now, and rubbed very carefully at the bruise France’s bones had dug into. Now that he had France’s attention he could just take it wherever he wanted it to go after all. Just needed to get his foot in the door.

“Depends” France responded, glancing at their driver just in case. “A little, maybe. He was always a little like this, a bit overly hospitable you know, and the rest makes sense given the situation. Communism isn’t treating him very well.”

Always a little like this, huh. America stared outside and tried to remember what Russia used to be like, the blue filter draining away for other colors in a curious contrast to the withering material world, steadily deader the closer they got to Berlin. He kind of wanted to run the rest of the way. “He’s creepy” America exhaled.

France didn’t say anything back, but when America looked back he could see that France’s expression was one of exhausted agreement. “England theorized the other day that he sustained some sort of head injury that he’s not telling us about” France conceded after another pause, like he were sharing confidential information. “And that’s why he’s talking so strangely- he keeps forgetting words, or just uses the plain wrong ones. He asked me for a cigarette, but what he actually said instead of ‘cigarette’ was something completely different and when I confronted him about it, he just waved it off, like it was normal.”

America hit his forehead against the casing of the car when he leaned in closer to the window without the pane, cold wind blowing the hair out of his face. The chill was pleasantly soothing against his skin and the heat radiating from his heart. “And what’s England’s deal? He’s been pissy all day too, yesterday. After the meeting he tried to lecture me because there was a typo somewhere in the documents.” 

“He did?” France inquired, sounding at least a little irritated, and America liked to think it was on his behalf. That was what he’d asked for, anyway. It was good to hear his thoughts echoed from somebody else. “That’s such bad form. Don’t give him the time of day, the old bastard’s just nervous. The results from the general election apparently aren’t in yet and he’s been taking it out on all of us, as usual. The other day he would not stop trying to explain the intricacies of his electoral system to me – who does he think I am?”

“Ha, did he get attached to Churchill?”

“No, I don’t think that’s it, he just gets clingy out of the blue sometimes.”

America’s grin became painful. Yeah.

“Well, they do look lovely together, would be a shame for them to part” America laughed, and France joined in with a snicker. Fat Churchill and twig England. France was too thin too, America could see that even in the dark of the back of the car, but his suits were good at making it look normal. France made everything look easy.

“Do you think Stalin’s got a complex? ‘Cause Russia’s so tall?”

“I wouldn’t call it a complex, but I did think he was looking a little unhappy when they stood next to each other for that photo.”

While they joked back and forth about the inadequacies of others, the car trundled along down the road, one of many leading into the city like veins. America felt a bit blurry around the edges as he surveyed the ruins they came across, but also in part because it was strange to talk so easily with France. He still felt like smiling. He still… he still felt good. Ecstatic. Still bursting with the sun in his chest.

Case in point, France said “I forgot to say it, but I liked how you delivered your opening address” and America could not help but feel kind of flattered, even though he could hear the jab. “You’re getting better at this. Have you been feeling better?”

“Have I—Oh?”

“You were acting a bit erratic last time.”

The sun was ascending, the first slivers of real light illuminating their profiles. The calming curtains of night were rising.

“I am…—Being home really did the trick, I think.”

“It’s good to see you being more like yourself again, then.”

America didn’t like this.

America didn’t like this surge of… fondness for France.

America sat up very straight.

The light was beginning to flood his eyesight, and while his body remained a heavy vessel pinning him down, his mind was racing. What next? Would they start reminiscing about the good old times?

He wanted to tell France. He wanted to tell him right now while it was just the two of them and a driver that didn’t speak English. It was slowly undoing America to keep it to himself, this secret that only he knew, or oh god, maybe everyone already knew. He was so far away from all of them, he was two steps ahead of everything. He wanted to tell France. He wanted to blurt it out right now.

He dug his nails deep into the skin of his arm until his limb shook.

And he said nothing.

Except: “Where are we going first?”

“Germany.”

America’s stomach sunk through the floor. Oops.

.

.

.

It briefly felt a bit like no time at all had passed; the room had been kept almost exactly the same and Germany too hadn’t changed much. His bandages had been fresher and his complexion had regained a little bit of color, even if that color was red from irritated skin. Beggars can’t be choosers. And he had not responded to any of their inquiries or their prodding.

The new doctors (you will be missed Tymoshenko! Volkov!) explained to them how difficult it was to get him to eat when he never seemed to be mentally present at all. He threw up a lot too, so it was hard to justify the effort. The last bit America imagined them saying, from the frustrated expressions.

France took a few photos for the record while America watched closely stuck to the wall like a fly on a windshield.

The noises had all been the same and it wasn’t like France had been paying a lot of attention, but America had, he’d seen the little twitches. Something like covert stolen glances. If there was something Germany had wanted to say, he could’ve done it. If there was any other horrible terrifying thing he wanted to say, this was the opportunity.

But nothing suspicious happened, and America wondered if maybe he had just been going insane last time he was here. He’d made them leave early.

.

.

.

By the time they got to Prussia’s room, America had almost completely bounced back. Because he didn’t feel like being scared, he was excited to see Prussia. Excited to see if maybe he could score another success. France gave him a concerned look, so America brushed past him and just let himself in with much gusto.  
The guard that was stationed here could see it was them, people definitely authorized to be here, and he still jumped when the door flung open and hit the wall with a loud thud, but the person on the bed inside the room did not move an inch.

“Good morning, Prussia” America announced himself and waltzed in, noting the last touches of the previous tenants as he examined the room: washed out floral patterned tapestry. In here it was just that, tattered lace curtains, and the bed and a rickety stool they had gotten from one of the neighbors.  
Keeping it bare, just in case.

When Prussia did not flinch even now, America stepped closer to see if he was maybe unconscious again, but the man’s eyes were… okay, they were open. America recoiled from leaning over him, if only because it was uncomfortable to be right in the line of sight of those eyes, even if Prussia didn’t seem to register his presence.

“France, he’s playing corpse too. I thought he can be talked to?”

France’s face was hidden behind the camera. “He can, we’ll just have to wake him up. Would you move him a little? I can’t get a good picture like this.”

Hmm. America shuddered a little. He bent over the body and grabbed it by the shoulders, dragging it a little to reduce the glare from the light on the pale skin. It was like arranging a very ugly, very cursed doll. Prussia did not resist the slightest, blinking only lethargically at nothing.  
Experimentally, America picked up his arm and let it drop down again. Whatever this state really was that Germany and Prussia kept locking their minds into, it was some intense stuff to make them so resistant.

Doing this England’s way would sting, but there didn’t seem to be any more elegant solution to this problem. Even though Prussia was shackled to the metal frame of the bed by the ankles, for precaution France was already stemming some his weight onto the part of Prussia’s legs that wasn’t in immediate danger of shattering.  
So what was left for America to do… His blood was rushing in his ears when he cradled Prussia’s bandaged left hand with his own, trying to put pressure on Prussia’s torso with his free arm. With his thumb America brushed over the gauze, over the heel of the hand in circular movements. Slowly pressing into the rough material, towards the center of Prussia’s hand, when America’s thumb dipped slightly into the flesh. Gross, gross, pressing down--

Prussia awoke with a loud gasp, immediately breaking out in sweat and clamoring to sit up as if he had just been pulled back from drowning, but America’s arm was blocking him no matter how much he strained against it, until his body collapsed sadly in on itself. Breathing heavily, Prussia sunk back into his pillow, and America let go of the hand he was holding as if he’d gotten burned.

“…Hello” America greeted again once Prussia’s breathing had evened out a little.

“Hello” Prussia said back, in German. Maybe he wasn’t all there yet. He wasn’t looking at anyone in particular, his eyes still searching the room as if there was supposed to be something there that had now vanished.  

“Hope you’ve slept well.”

“Mhm.”

A scraping noise; France had pulled over the stool to sit down on and he asked America to step back so he could take another picture. Then rustling of fabric because France had gotten out his pen and papers for protocol, the cue to get started.

“I’ll ask you a few routine questions, if that’s alright” America said with a smile that came from the heart.

Prussia coughed, which America figured could be an ‘alright, go ahead’.

“Do you know who you are?”

“Prussia.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“Berlin, my new room.”

So he’d retained that much information, nice.

America licked his lips. “Do you know what day today is?”

Prussia tried to frown, his eye twitching from concentrated thought. “19th July, 1945. Or 20th?”

France and America looked at each other, because that was… a freakishly accurate estimate for somebody who just emerged from coma. France pulled up his shoulders and shook his head slightly, he had no idea either where Prussia was getting that so soon either.  
Meant that France could write down that Prussia was conscious and aware though, so that was neat.

It wasn’t really supposed to be an interrogation today. Just a day for America to catch up on what he’d missed abroad out of the continent and to see for himself the progresses made in physical condition by their ‘patients’. Like when statesmen drive around the countryside to look at the misery so they could nod wisely, and not do shit about it. That was the plan.  
America was very aware of that, and so was France, and the scratching of pen on paper made it very hard to think anything else.

But America had just technically stuck his thumb into a hole in Prussia’s hand, and that kind of thing felt pretty horrible off the battlefield, and he was so restless, so he wanted…  
Well, if he was honest, he wanted it anyway. Something that only Prussia had.

But.

“Hey, France? Could you leave the room for a bit?”

“What? No.”

America huffed. “Please, I just want to talk to him one on one for a moment. Nothing sinister.” He did his very best to spell out ‘don’t disagree in front of the criminal’ with facial expressions but he could feel that his face wouldn’t produced anything beyond a strained grimace. He should’ve practiced his sign language more, and he shouldn’t have let France talk to him so freely on the car ride.  
France’s eyes were narrowing on him, his features taking on that sharp and unsympathetic edge that America hated so much. That-- That look of a responsible man doing his duty. That wasn’t a face for France to wear.

“ _Trust me_ , France.”

France’s eyes locked with his.  
Blue, both pairs. Unnaturally so in different ways.  
But England had always said that America’s were eerier.

As recalcitrant in every fiber of his being as he was vain, France rose from the stool, holding on to his camera and writing utensils like he had to worry about somebody trying to take them from him. So easily insulted. “I’ll talk to the guard for a moment” France stated like a machine, his movements fittingly stiff and reluctant as he made his way out of the room. The boards creaked ominously with every step and the white paint chipped from the door when it was shut.

From the hall quiet voices snuck through the gaps.

“What do you want?” Prussia asked listlessly when relative silence returned, not seeming at all concerned about being alone with America with no chaperone.

What did America want?

“I thought it’d be nicer to talk without that kind of company” America said cheerfully and motioned towards the exit where France was probably leaning against the other side of the door. Prussia wasn’t impressed of course. “To what end?”

What end did America want?

He was restless. Prussia’s lungs were breathing too evenly for the occasion and his detachment lacked the kind of comfort America thought it would give. Dust motes were dancing lazily in the morning sunlight.

The stool wobbled dangerously under America’s weight, one of its legs shorter than the others and gradually disassembling itself. It was kind of challenging to look dignified balancing on this thing. “There’s something I wanna ask you about. You know.”

Prussia said that he didn’t know.

“I mean… Come on, you have to know what I’m getting at. You’ve kept them somewhere safe, right?”

The diaries.  
Centuries worth of meticulous records and therefore a criminal record in first person.

The stairs somewhere were groaning. America chewed at the dead skin clinging to his lips, tearing off bits and waiting for the cracks to heal over. Prussia just winced as he tried to move to a more comfortable position, the chains clinking innocently and the sound of the fabric of the linen nightshirt rustling so distinct that America could feel the texture under his palm.

“Of course you did, you’re Prussia” America prodded.

Prussia sneered, and the nostalgia of that was beautiful. For a moment it looked like he was going to open his mouth to say something, a dark glint of understanding somewhere in those eyes – and then that died, and he just stared over to the window.

America leaned forward, toppling over almost.

He had to think. What could Prussia hate more?

“Okay, I get you don’t want us to know” he said, resting a hand on the mattress. “But don’t you think we’ll find them?”

“You might.”

“It might be humans who find them.”

“Yes.”

“If you tell me, I could guarantee you that they won’t be destroyed.”

Gilbert’s personality showed in a spark when he rolled his eyes, and America chuckled just because he could sort of see how that would have to sound like a hollow promise. So he tried several others: preservation, that they wouldn’t read them. That they wouldn’t read all of them. That they’d move him somewhere more comfortable. That they’d be more lenient if he cooperated. That they’ll squeeze the life out of him one way or another so he might as well just do what he’s asked.

Prussia could at most see the remnants of the burned-out roof from the house across the street from his bed, but that was apparently still more interesting to him than his legacy or the time pressure America was operating under.  
France would come bursting in any moment now.

America said so to Prussia.

Prussia stared.

And then, then, finally—Prussia inhaled deeply, collecting oxygen and energy to form a sentence for America’s ears alone—  
Prussia’s voice was quiet and thin, and every crevice of it filled out with cold disdain.

“I know what it is you’re going to do. I know about the conference right now. England has told me about the declaration, about my status, about what you’re going to try to do. I know that you need all the evidence you can get to make a good case, no? Seems like it to me. Considering this, I think it’s not time for me to give you anything.”

Not time.

Not time.

“Oh.”

That meant ‘not yet’.

Prussia closed his eyes like it was too much effort to keep them open.

‘Not until I know a better deal’.

Prussia was such a dirty opportunist, but obviously one hell of a gambler.

France knocked angrily on the door, but America told him to stay out, just another minute. America felt something scratching at the walls of his throat that wasn’t a cough or a laugh, even though both seemed accurate because he felt both kind of amused by the posturing and embarrassed by the rawness of Prussia’s rotten character, feeling stripped of his own defenses in return. It brought forth the thing bending America’s ribs outward, exploding like a nuclear fission inside of him.

He wanted to tell Prussia.

“Hey Prussia—“

America’s heart was pounding, but in the second it had taken to gather his thoughts Prussia had slipped away and no prodding in his wounds got him back.

.

.

.

“Mr President?”

Back at Cecilienhof, America was impressed to find how much quieter his own voice had become. Not so quiet that he didn’t almost get kicked out of the conference for deflecting the questions Russia and England whispered at him, but. Quieter.

“Yes, Mr Jones?”  The president turned around, having taken off his glasses to clean them. Evidently not really in the mood for heavy talk just now, not when he'd only just escaped it for a brief moment.

America thought that Truman had a trustworthy face, which might be because he was terribly biased not only by way of being a nation. It was just that he’d known him for a while now and nobody else would have been so permissive of the kind of grief Alfred Jones tended to inflict on his presidents with his attitude. It wasn’t even that he was doing it on purpose! It just happened!  
Truman had seen him bully old Franklin so much that he seemed to be immune.

Although the conference was taking its toll on the man too, America could sense that.

America fidgeted, giddy not with joy.

“I want that testimony from Japan soon, it’s _imperative_ that we get his testimony. I guess I'm conflicted about this. Tell me again why we're doing it.“


End file.
